


In Dreams

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Millerverse), DCU - All Star Batman and Robin
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Creepy, Doppelganger, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I finally went through with my evil plans to write that thing where Regular!Bruce & Dick (I’m using a mix of Grant Morrison/New 52, only Damian isn’t dead because that’d suck donkey balls) meet Bruce & Dick from Frank Miller’s notorious (and glorious XD) All-Star Batman and Robin. Sparks fly, yo. Fists, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Bruce/Dick Ficathon 2013](http://brucedickficathon.tumblr.com/). Please check out the wonderful [cover art](http://faelivrin.net/brudick/lokiet.jpg) drawn by [Lokiet](http://lokiet.tumblr.com/)!

**Prologue** **  
**  
He doesn't know how he got here.  
  
He knows he's not sleeping, and he knows he's not awake. He mastered full control over his dreamscapes –  even his nightmares – a long time ago. He always knows dream from reality, and this is neither. He's someplace else, someplace in-between.  
  
Again.  
  
It's not threatening; something tells him it's not threatening. He feels … mellow, at peace almost. But of course, that in itself might be a deception. He tries to fight it, tries to fan that little flame in the back of his mind that tells him something's not right.  
  
 _You're Batman,_  he tells himself,  _You can never be at ease. If you are, you will lose._  
  
He takes a look around. The night is pitch-dark and gentle. He's in Dick's old room. A good place that gives him good memories (for the most part), mixed in with a painful, but dulled sense of loss and regret. It looks exactly like it's supposed to look, and yet it feels alien to him. His instinct tells him he's never been in here before, and that can't be right. He feels his pulse in his fingertips.  
  
The boy in the wine-red pajamas sleeping on the bed is Dick, and yet he's  _not_  Dick.  
  
Bruce knows it's not him, because Dick Grayson is in his twenties, he's not Robin, he's gone on to become Nightwing, then Batman, then Nightwing again. He's leading his own life, and he's moved out a long time ago. He doesn't live here anymore.   
  
And still, this is him; it's unmistakably him. This is Dick as the bright young boy he used to be, not the remarkable man he would become. He's not Nightwing, he's –  
  
 _Robin,_  Bruce thinks, and he feels a small leap in his chest and an uncomfortable stirring in his loins.  
  
That's when Dick suddenly stirs too, comes alive on the bed, and shoots up from his slumber with a soft grunt, as if someone had startled him from it.  
  
"I'm awake!"  
  
His face is drowsy when he looks up at Bruce, but his voice is present and alert at once, from 0 to 100 in a split second.   
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
Bruce blinks at him. He doesn't even remember when he's moved to the foot of the bed to watch him.  
  
Dick rubs his bleary eyes, but when he talks again, there's a hard edge in his voice that Bruce doesn't remember from back then. Dick had always been filled with faith and exuberance, always.  
  
"Talk to me, boss. This isn't a drill, is it? Want me to get ready? I can be ready."  
  
He sounds almost brassy, but his smooth face goes from sleepy to very tense. Bruce's first instinct is to soothe him, which is something he still wishes he'd done more.  
  
"No," he says softly, "Nothing's wrong."  
  
Dick cocks a brow at him. Something – the tone of Bruce's voice, his words, he's not sure – seems to fill him with doubt. Bruce realizes too late that what he said was a lie, too. Something is obviously  _very_ wrong. He's talking to a teenage Dick in his bedroom in the middle of the night, and none of this could, or should, be happening.  
  
The boy rolls off his belly, and sits up cross-legged on the bed. Now that he's fully awake, his blue eyes are as sharp and hard as his voice is; a challenge. He asks, "So.  _Then_  what?"  
  
Bruce lowers his head. Good question.  
  
He should explain himself. He should tell Dick about his doubts, about not knowing where he is or  _when_  he is. But something about how the boy simply accepts him as  _him_  and quietly waits for his orders is intriguing and deeply distracting.  
  
Still, he's about to open his mouth, when he notices the way Dick looks at him.  
  
He's in his civilian clothes, which in Bruce Wayne's case is an exquisite tuxedo. He smells like after shave and perfume, as if he's returning from some gala, some great opening. It makes sense; he faintly remembers getting ready for a benefit performance of  _The Magic Flute_ , but not much after that. He realizes that he's undone the fly and the top few buttons of his shirt, like he always does as soon as he comes home; but that must've been before his consciousness kicked in. He doesn't recall doing it.  
  
Dick takes all of that in, the exquisite suit, the crisp white open shirt with the dark hair peeking out. There's a sly, almost  _indecent_  glint in his smart eyes. Then, he lowers his gaze under thick, long lashes, and exhales deeply. Something tightens in Bruce's throat.  
  
If this  _was_  a dream, which it is not, he'd have to admit that he's had this one before. That look in his ward's eyes, that's how it starts, and then -   
  
He needs to get out of this now.  
  
He  
  
Needs  
  
To  
  
Get  
  
Younger Dick gets on his knees and crawls to the edge of his bed, where Bruce is standing. He uses the front of Bruce's tux to pull himself up, which isn't coincidental. Dick never needs help getting up, ever. Next, his fingers are climbing Bruce's chest like a timid spider, en route to his face, his mouth. He  _knows_  it'll be his mouth. Dick looks as mischievous as he looks scared. He's breathing fast. Bruce finds himself fixating on his soft lips. They're pursed, forming a small, tense "o", as if he's working on something volatile and unstable. As if he's expecting Bruce to swat him away like a fly every second. Which he should. Not …  _swat_  him, but he should, he, he should –  
  
He closes his eyes when those fingers reach his lips, tries to breathe steadily, shudders, gives the game away. Dick's fingers taste like salt and sweat. Dick  _smells_  like salt and sweat, like lingering heat and brewing testosterone. Bruce knows that smell, from his training mats and his locker room and from the empty chair next to him at the pool, he knows it, and when he thinks about how many times he's wanted to  _l i c k_  it…  
  
 _You must resist,_  he thinks.  _This is a test. You must resist, or you will lose._  
  
 _You will_  lose it.  
  
And while he's thinking that, his mouth is opening, and he's grazing the shivering fingers with his tongue, taking in the taste. He feels heat pooling between his legs and sweat breaking out of his pores, rare and treacherous. He hears a sharp intake of breath. When he opens his eyes, he sees Dick staring at him; watching his mentor toy with his fingers. He doesn't smile, his usually expressive face tense and unmoving, but his eyes are wide and his pupils are blown.  
  
When their eyes meet, he sees something –  _Recognition? Epiphany?_  – flash across Dick's smooth young face. And in a heartbeat, they both know what's going to happen. What they're going to do. Oddly, there's no sense of surprise to it. As if they both always knew it would eventually be this way.  
  
Maybe it's because this isn't real; not a dream, but not really  _real_ , either. Bruce repeats that to himself like a mantra.  _It's not real,_  so maybe, this once, he can indulge it, maybe that's what it's for. Commit this transgression. Exorcise this demon. This one, this  _one_  time. Deep down, he's salivating for it like a boy standing outside a candy store.  
  
Dick lets out another nervous grunt when Bruce softly puts two fingers on his cheek. His eye twitches, as if he's still expecting violence. But when Bruce pulls him in and kisses his lips, he kisses him back greedily, sucking desperate air through his nostrils. He opens his mouth for Bruce's tongue before the older man even thinks about giving it to him, then moans in satisfaction when he receives it. His lean body twitches in his silk sleepwear (it's one of Bruce's old ones, it has the family crest on it), then rocks against him, as if he's been waiting for a chance to pounce on him all along.   
  
His mouth feels as good as Bruce always knew it would. It makes him want to scream for a number of reasons.  
  
The youth wastes no time, slides a hand down the front of his slacks, feeling around, groping him crudely, impatiently. Bruce wishes his obvious lack of experience  _wouldn't_  prompt him to grow stiffer under his fingers, but it's too late for that. The boy starts shaking like a leaf when he feels it.  
  
"Boss," he squawks, and then he flinches in surprise when Bruce hugs him to his chest, cradles him, runs his fingers through his hair. He buries his head in the crook of his neck, driven by an almost frenzied need. He whispers his name, once, twice. Gross. Possessive.  
  
 _It's_  fear gas _, you idiot,_  something nags in the back of his mind.  _Crane's latest. Has to be. Think about it. This is the_  worst -   
  
"You came around quick, huh?" Dick whispers with a breathless laugh, drowning out the voice in Bruce's head. He tries to sound jovial, but Bruce can tell how very anxious he is, still expecting this to take a bad turn (insofar as it hasn't already). His lips are leaving a hot, wet trail on Bruce's skin. His voice is so  _high_. "I thought you said you're no –  _ungh_."  
  
Dick gasps in surprise when Bruce pushes him back on the mattress. His eyes light up fierily, he bares his teeth and  _hisses_ , like a feral cat, but then he grows quiet and attentive when he sees Bruce follow him into bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He's so much bigger. So much heavier. Dick drops on his back with a shiver, and when Bruce puts his hands on his knees, his legs part to receive him.  
  
"I –", Dick crows. " _Ah_."  
  
His previous words have made no sense to Bruce; in reality, they've never spoken of this, never even brought up the possibility. It's all cautious distance and measured words and painfully suppressed erections, at least as far as he is concerned. That's the reason, the true reason why he doesn't hug him anymore, why he doesn't get too close, because he needs all of that under control, and he's not going to approach the flame while he's holding the matches.  
  
But  _this_.  _This_  one. He  _wants_  him. And it fills him with greed, and it makes him forget the words and focus on his desire to feel what it's like to be on top of him, because he's always wanted to find out.  
  
Bruce hears him mutter " _What,_ " under his breath as he pulls him under his heavy body. But it's not  _fearful_ , it's … Dick, he's frenzied, too, in a frayed, desperate way that Bruce doesn't associate with Dick Grayson. His heart is hammering against Bruce's palm when he puts a hand on his chest. His adam's apple is bobbing restlessly, and he mewls softly when Bruce draws his rough tongue across the delicate, ticklish skin of his throat.  
  
"Don't be mean," he shudders, hips rotating, pinned beneath Bruce's weight.  
  
"I'm not …" Bruce's voice is hoarse and quiet. His fingers ghost along the insides of Dick's clothed thighs, heat under silk. The boy's erection is so hard and fevered and dry, it literally feels like touching bone. His buttocks are as firm and round and perfect as they look when he squeezes them. "…being mean …"  
  
"Please." Dick is making fists, eyes screwed shut. "Please _please_."  
  
"…stop?" Bruce loosens his grip again.  
  
The boy's eyes fly open. He gives him that long, hard stare again, and hisses, " _No._ "  
  
Bruce nods, mouth and throat all dried up, and leans down to press his forehead against Dick's. This time, the boy doesn't flinch when he touches his face to brush the stray hair out of his eyes. His breathing grows even faster when Bruce kisses him again.  
  
Around them, Dick's room seems to dissolve. Darkness swallows everything, until there's only the bed, floating through nothing almost. As if nothing in this world was material apart from them, lost in time and space. It's only them. Only them.  
  
"Baby," he hears himself whisper, in what is probably the lowest point of his life (if this  _is_  his life), to which Dick responds with, "…ha."  
  
He doesn't resist when Bruce takes both his arms and pins them down over his head, drawing him like a bow. He's not sure if it's trust, or submission; he wants it to be the former, but Dick's sharp, gleaming eyes don't look particularly trusting. They're large and disbelieving,  _skeptical_ , but there's  _lust_ , too. A sliver of bright pink tongue escapes his mouth, flits across his lips in nervous excitement. His flanks are wriggling, rolling up against the bigger set of hips weighing on him, rutting, jutting. A moment later, his legs snap shut around his middle, and Bruce moans when he's reminded how wiry and strong Dick's thighs are,  _were_ , always. The single drop of sweat running down his throat is deliriously pretty. It takes a lot to make him sweat.  
  
He feels obscene when he starts moving, using Dick's lean body as a surface to grind on. It's an approximation, an imitation of what he  _actually_  wants with him, but it's all he can bring himself to do. His erection responds to the friction, throbbing against his hot, sticky skin, trapped in his luxurious underwear. The boy's arousal is so hard, it's almost as if he can feel the blood pounding in it through two layers of clothing. Dick gasps every time he brushes against him, and then he starts doing his part, humping him from below, and when Bruce looks down at him, he sees  _gratitude_. It makes him sick to his stomach, and it's enough to make him leak into his pants.  
  
It's dreary and sophomoric, it's every bit as frantic as Bruce has always hoped it wouldn't be, but always knew it would. He dry-humps his ward into the mattress like the desperate man he is, and the boy's writhing and husky noises of pleasure almost make it worse, like this is actually good, presumably because he's never had any better. And he's staring up at Bruce with that wide-eyed, fixed look, as if he still expects it all to end in a cruel punchline.  
  
"Please, Sir," he begs through his teeth. "Please. Don't stop, Sir."  
  
It fills him with shame how hard it makes his cock twitch, so he lets go of Dick's wrists to crudely rub his fingers over his lips. When his thumb trails past them, the boy opens his mouth and begins sucking on it. No.  _Fellating_  it. He gets so into it that he actually closes his eyes, for once, as if it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. The sight of it makes Bruce want to cry. Again, for a number of reasons. He's panting like a dog. He's going to ruin those slacks any minute now. Something like this usually wouldn't serve to drive him over the edge, but then, he's never experienced doing  _something like this_  to … with _him_.  
  
His thumb slips out of Dick's wet mouth when he groans loudly. Bruce feels him raise his legs, then plant his naked feet firmly on his ass, prompting him to come down harder. He's moaning steadily now, and Bruce knows he's getting close. He's always, always wanted to give Dick an orgasm; he's given him planes, cars, motorbikes, buildings, and many many lessons, but the thing he's always  _really_  wanted to give him is a good, screaming orgasm, and now, and now –  
  
Dick roars in frustration when Bruce abruptly stops rutting on him, and clumsily dismounts him. He doesn't have the supreme control over himself that he usually has. But seeing Dick doing that to his thumb has given him an idea. It's almost madness that he hasn't thought of it earlier; the mental image has been festering in him for so long.  
  
Gently peeling his precome-smeared, twitching cock out of his pajama pants feels so sinful it makes Bruce almost delirious. His loins contract violently when he lays his eyes on it. Having his pants pulled down seems to make Dick feel antsy again. Bruce can see him peek at him with an almost startled look on his face.  
  
"What … " He mumbles, voice dazed with lust but alarmed, as well, "What're you  _doing_."  
  
"Sssh," Bruce croons, which makes him feel even creepier. Dick shivers when his breath grazes the wet, tender tip of his cock, and then his tongue follows.  
  
" _That?!_  Bu – uhn," Dick whines, but then falls quiet, as if he remembers that Bruce has hushed him. Bruce, he has no words for him, he uses his tongue, his lips to communicate in a different way. He hasn't planned on doing it, but now he stuffs his hand down the waistband of his pants, stroking himself off while he laps at the pulsing heat in front of him. It seems like he hasn't beaten off this fervently since he's been a teenager himself.  
  
He doesn't even get to take him in his mouth proper. Dick lasts until Bruce starts tenderly nibbling on his stretched, heated skin with his teeth, then he cringes, cries out, and a spurt of warm discharge hits Bruce square in the face.   
  
Dick falls flat on his back, panting, while Bruce finishes himself off over his outstretched body. The boy's pajama top has slid up, revealing the tender, olive skin of his belly, and even if Bruce doesn't even consciously want to aim there, he does. Dick doesn't protest, watching him lazily with misty, half-lidded eyes as he spills his seed onto his naked skin.  
  
Once arousal leaves his mind and body, Bruce feels the abyss opening up, tugging at him. He doubles over, panting, eyes shut, something sharp burning in them, sweat, or tears.  
  
 _It happened.  
  
I don't know what to do.  
  
It_  happened.  
  
 _Yes,_  a voice calmly debates him,  _But it's not rea –_  
  
He looks up when he hears a small huff. Dick has sat up, and now he's … he's stripping. The top goes, then the bottoms, too. And then Bruce is hit in the eye by the beauty of his naked, bendy form. The scars and fading bruises on his skin make his stomach tie itself in a knot for a moment, but then he remembers that, back then, the boy had always looked like that, they both had. Dick flops down again, satisfied, and Bruce realizes that he's taken his clothes off to let the night air cool his skin. Though it's probably no coincidence that he's presenting him with his naked body now. He rolls on his stomach, his pose accentuating the smooth, perfect hump of his ass, and props his head up on his arms to watch the older man wipe his semen from his chin.  
  
"You don't say much," he points out, legs dangling in the air.  
  
Bruce grunts at him. He isn't sure how to talk to him. Or look straight at him. Ever again.  
  
Dick lowers his gaze at his silence. He nibbles at his full bottom lip for a while, then looks up again. "You're not," he begins. Bruce sees him scrunch up his face, debating whether or not to share that last remaining secret with him.  
  
"You're not my Batman," he finally says.  
  
Something loosens in Bruce's chest. He exhales deeply, and forces himself look at Dick directly when he quietly replies, "You're not my Robin."  
  
His current Robin is his own son; which makes the scene playing out on this bed even more disturbing. Bruce is too ashamed to even mention it.  
  
Dick doesn't seem surprised by his admission. But he seems a little anxious when he asks, "'s not a dream though, is it."  
  
Bruce shakes his head. "No. I don't think it is."  
  
His pulse starts rushing again. Talking to him, it feels … good, but it also makes it absolutely clear that, while something about this seems surreal, this Dick Grayson is indeed  _very_  real, not some fantasy, some sultry vision that's simply going to fade. He's flesh, flesh that's been tainted by him now. He feels anxiety creep up his throat.  
  
"Dick?"   
  
This is going to be a weird question, but he's just more or less admitted to being Robin, so it's a legitimate one. "Have you taken part in inter-dimensional travel or time travel before …?"  
  
"Have I what?!" The teen's eyes light up with curiosity. "Get out. That's real? That's a  _thing_? Tell me more about it!" He freezes. "I mean, if you want to," he then says, as if he's worried he's being too demanding. "Sir."  
  
"Call me Bruce," Bruce says, very awkwardly. And then, when the youth looks conflicted, "Does he not … do you not call him that?"  
  
The boy opts not to reply, and quickly gets back to the topic at hand. "I suppose if Superman's powers can be real, and Wonder Woman's, and whatever the Green Lantern's deal is … " He weighs his head and narrows his brows. The sight makes Bruce's heart – and his loins – ache with nostalgia. Dick has never been prettier than when he's mulling over a question in his head. "Then there's no reason why traveling through space and time can't be!"   
  
The possibility makes him almost bounce on the bed. Bruce observes him. Dick – the Dick Grayson he knows, that is – has always been bursting with energy, but in this kid, it seems weirdly amplified. He seems manic, almost. Now that Bruce interacts with him, it's nearly impossible to mistake them for each other, despite them looking exactly alike. It's something in his manner and in his eyes, something –   
  
"Batman – uh, my Batman I mean, he's once told me about some lady in the League who can perform real magic and stuff," Dick says, interrupting his train of thought. "D'you think she did this?"  
  
Zatanna. That's a possibility he hadn't considered yet.  
  
And before he can help it, it's out of his mouth. "Good thinking, Robin."  
  
Dick smiles. For the first time since they've met here, he smiles, and it goes from ear to ear. Blood is rushing into his cheeks. There's something profoundly sad about how thrilled he is.  
  
 _Is this how mine felt, too,_  he wonders, and it stings, because he knows the answer. It had been so easy to make him happy, back then.  
  
Almost instinctively, he drapes his arm around the boy. He hears Dick suck in the air at the touch. His skin is warm; comforting. He hesitates for a heartbeat, and then, he slowly, tentatively lets his head sink against Bruce's shoulder.  
  
 _This is perfect,_  a deranged, amoral part of his brain whispers.  _This is how it was always supposed to be._  
  
Bruce tries to ignore it. This Dick Grayson might not be from his world, but he feels responsibility for him, a deep-seated, archaic feeling. He needs to make sure he's going to be … alright, as far as he can be alright after this.  
  
"Zatanna, she's a friend. I can try to reach her," he says soothingly. "Even if this isn't her doing, she can probably assist in – "  
  
He stops.  
  
He can't bring himself to say,  _getting us home._  
  
His stomach drops. Getting them home, meaning that they'd have to part, meaning they probably would never see each other again, never do this again. Meaning this would be over. Bruce feels nauseated. He hadn't thought he could ever be so selfish –  
  
"Uh," the teenager mumbles, idly playing with the buttons on Bruce's shirt. "You mean. Now?"  
  
His face looks sullen, and Bruce knows he's thinking the same thing. The symmetry is unnerving, and very very … stimulating.  
  
Bruce tenses when the tugging on his shirt intensifies. Dick seems a little less scared of him than he did in the beginning, bold enough to be petulant. "I mean," he mutters with a soft, but deliberate pout, "You drop into my bedroom, from who-knows-where, and … and now you wanna leave again, just like that?"  
  
He looks up. The intent on his face is unmistakable, and it makes all of Bruce's blood run cold, then run South. He shudders, and remembers how his dumb, selfish heart had bottomed out when Dick called him his "father" for the first time. This one, this boy. He would never call him father, never. And his eyes, his eyes –   
  
"Can't we," Dick bats his eyes at him, blushing. "Can't we have fun …?"  
  
He still looks timid, but he's fully aware of the effect he has on Bruce now, and he's playing to it. He's always been such a fast learner. Bruce's cock twitches desperately in his dress pants, straining in his direction. Dick presses himself up to him, making no attempt to hide that he's gotten aroused again, too. Not that he could, as naked as he is. Bruce leans down to kiss his mouth. A wild, distorted laugh comes from Dick's throat when Bruce plunges his tongue in him again, unable to resist.  
  
He pulls back, licking his lips. He feels filthy, and  _his_  intent is unmistakable, too, when he growls, "Go … go find your suit. Put it on."  
  
He's had Dick, now he wants Robin, too.  _This_  Robin, from a time in his life where their nights had been filled with levity and joy and potential. It's too late to turn back, he wants it all now, he wants, he  _wants_. This night, this place, this moment, it's –  
  
 _This is my only shot at this_  
  
A smile of recognition spreads across the boy's face. His eyes light up like Dick's eyes always did when he was up to something mischievous, though never something  _this_  mischievous.  
  
" _Really?!_ " He sounds breathless when he stumbles to his feet. "Okay. I'll get it. I'll get it. You wait here. Don't go," he urges Bruce, as if he had any say in that matter. Dick hops out of bed, diving back into his pants while he flits to the door. His rooms seems … back, somehow, it's more real than it was when Bruce first got into bed. Though it still looks oddly stilted, faded. Like a reminder that Bruce doesn't belong here. Dick moves through it with a certainty that makes Bruce think that maybe this is his world; or maybe it's taking shape around him because he knows where he wants to go.  
  
"Hey," he turns around before he leaves, hand on the doorknob. He looks almost impossibly excited. "Boss, er, Bruce, want me … want me to bring yours, too?"  
  
Bruce's tenses in intense discomfort. He doesn't really want it. He doesn't really want to face the cowl, much less wear it. One of two points of pride in his life … well, the only one, now that this happened. Drag it into this … this …  
  
"You're  _blushing_ ," Dick observes from the door, shuffling his feet, giggling. He looks so pleased.  
  
He's agreed to fulfill Bruce's request. It wouldn't be right to deny him his. Bruce lets his face sink into his hands.  
  
"Do it," he groans. "Bring it."  
  
Dick very nearly whoops at that, he can tell, but controls himself at the last minute. "Yes, Sir!" He enthuses, "Be right back. Don't go away. Don't go." Bruce hears the door, and then his eager, naked footsteps bouncing down the hall.  
  
He stays like that, kneeling on the bed in his rumpled tux, face in hands.  
  
Maybe he won't return.  
  
Maybe this somehow broke the spell.  
  
Maybe this is it.  
  
It's not. He hears the doorknob turn again in what seems to be a flash. It's taken Dick much less time than it should to rush to the Batcave and back, but Bruce figures that time works differently for him than it usually would, since the only thing that truly feels real to him is the boy.  
  
It's Robin who enters now, ears red with excitement, holding his cape and cowl like a sacred robe. The grin on his face is wicked and wide, but he looks a little bashful too, now that he's wearing his costume, and seeing that does things to Bruce's erection. He looks so slender in it, and his legs are bare, and his hard-on is bulging in the bright green leotard. The thought of him wriggling himself into his tight suit with a boner like that is almost too much.  
  
He stops grinning when he sees Bruce kneel on the bed in his prayer position.   
  
"Why are you still dressed?!" He complains, but bites his lip when he thinks he's overstepped again. His blush deepens. "Sorry. I mean …"  
  
"It's fine, Robin." He pinches the bridge of his nose, and readies himself. "Come here."  
  
He could swear that he briefly feels his soul leave his body when he puts on the Batsuit. But then, Robin somersaults into his arms (he actually does that) and smushes their faces together, and there's no stopping them. He shuts off his respect, his self-respect, and he cuts loose. He fulfills every disgusting fantasy he's ever had. He makes him moan when he runs his hot, wet mouth over his clothed erection. He pinches his sensible nipples over the vest, then under the vest. He licks his fingers when he takes off the gloves, and the soles of his feet when he takes off the pixie boots. He bends him over and spanks his perky round ass until it turns pink (which prompts the boy to come a second time, whimpering, squirming under his big hands). And Robin, he's so  _cooperative_ , he does whatever he's told, and he's so _enthusiastic_  about it. And Bruce … Batman, he does what he's asked, too. He lets him climb all over him, he lets him carpet-bomb his throat and cowled face with wet, lapping kisses, he shows him where to slide his hand into his jock to jerk him off under the suit. Eventually, Robin ends up on top of him, riding him like he's riding a warhorse into battle, biting his lip in concentration.  
  
Bruce looks up at Dick grinding on him, still in his costume, cape flapping behind him, and it looks so perverse, and how did he  _ever_  let him go out like that –   
  
He snaps out of it when the boy suddenly slams his hand against his bicep. It doesn't hurt him through his armor, but he can tell he was doing it hard.  
  
" _You,_ " Dick snaps, and now he looks more than mischievous, he looks … he looks twisted. His eyes are shielded by his visors, but Bruce can feel them on him, burning.  
  
"Tell me I'm good," he pants. "Tell me how  _good_  I am."  
  
Bruce's eyes flutter shut. "So good," he whispers, drawing breaths from deep inside his rumbling chest, "You're my good boy, you're my perfect boy - "  
  
He hears him laugh. In the next moment, Dick's hands are around his throat. He knows it should probably alarm him, but it only makes his arousal spike, and he bucks his hips with a moan. A little oxygen deprivation has never hurt him during sex, even though he has a feeling that's not why Dick is doing it.  
  
"Yeah," the boy hisses, and Bruce feels his breath on his face as he's leaning down, "Now tell me what a good soldier I am. The  _best_. Do it. Do it."  
  
He's choking him, but not hard enough to prevent him from speaking. Bruce says that for him, too, and he does it while squeezing his ass through his suit, which makes it even more obscene. But Robin, Dick, he sighs, deeply, and his fingers around Bruce's throat relax briefly before they shut tight again.  
  
" _Look at me._  Look. At. Me."  
  
Bruce does. "Robin," he says mildly, but the boy doesn't respond to mildness.  
  
"You  _need_  me," he says triumphantly, and the look on his face is indescribable as he slams himself down on him again and again, driving himself to climax. "You need me, doesn't matter what you said, or what you  _did_ , you need me, you  _do_  - !"  
  
His steely legs clench shut around Bruce's middle, and he throws his head back, and he comes, and it gets Bruce off so hard that he roars despite the thumb digging into his throat.  
  
Dick's anger, the furious impulse that made him choke Bruce and bark orders at him, seems to dissolve at once. As soon as they're done, he cuddles up to him again, rubbing his face on his broad chest like an affectionate cat. Bruce doesn't process a lot of thought at this moment, but enough to sense that the change is jarring.  
  
He lets him rest on his chest for a while, lets him catch his breath. Then, he quietly asks, "What did he do."  
  
Robin doesn't reply at first, his silence almost defiant. Then, he evades the question. He lifts his head to smile at Bruce, but his domino is conveniently covering his eyes. "Hey, are you hungry? D'you wanna go downstairs, get some sandwiches? I'll make you one. I know what you like."  
  
Bruce is on guard. The choke marks on his skin are still throbbing. This boy is not that chipper. This boy is not that harmless. And this insistence to treat him like he's  _his_ , even though he's not –   
  
He licks his lips. "Dick…"  
  
Something is wrong here,  _so_  wrong.  
  
"C'mon, it'll be fun!" The boy is chattering on, eager, no,  _desperate_  to distract him, hands clutching the front of his cape. "I can show you our …  _his_  Batcave, if you wanna. Aren't you curious if it's like yours? Do you have a dinosaur? 'cause we … he's got a dinosaur."  
  
"Dick."  
  
"And maybe we can spar together, I'm not tired -"   
  
He's interrupted by a sharp, eerie ring.   
  
A strange mix of sadness and relief washes over Bruce when he hears it, before he even knows what it is.  
  
The sound doesn't belong here, either, they both know it. Startled, they look around. The ringing repeats itself, over and over, warbling and distorted.  
  
There's a bright red, old-fashioned phone on a podium, emerging from a dark corner of the room. It hadn't been there before. It shouldn't be there, either. Bruce stares at it. He feels like he remembers it, though he knows he's never owned a phone like that.  
  
More importantly, he knows, he simply  _knows_ , that if he answers it, it'll take him home.  
  
And it's clear, from the terrified look on Dick Grayson's face, that he knows it, too. "No." His hands close tighter around his cape. "No. Don't. Don't answer it."  
  
Bruce gives him a tormented look. "I have to," he says, almost mechanically, because it's truth. It's home. Home is calling.  
  
"Bruce," Younger Dick whines. He sounds meek, but he's now clutching his cape as if he's holding his reins. His legs are snapping tight around his waist again. He's very strong; trained by the best. "Bruce. No."  
  
Bruce winces in pain at hearing his pleas. The idea of leaving him here, to an unknown world, an unknown version of himself and an unknown fate, it kills him. He looks up at him – to talk him down, perhaps, to assure him he'll be all right, even though he doesn't know that – and when he does, Dick tears his domino off his face to show him his eyes again. They're large and desperate, and there's something in his stare that has captivated Bruce from the start. And now that he looks at him, free of the base desire that had distracted him before, the other shoe drops, and he realizes what it is –  
  
 _Oh._  
  
A chill rolls down his spine.  
  
He's  _crazy_.  
  
It's clearly visible now. He looks unhinged as he clings to Bruce, unwilling to let go. Never in his life has Bruce seen Dick – the Dick from his world – look this manic.   
  
The boy's eyes narrow in anger when he sees the change in the way Bruce looks at him. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me here, don't you  _dare_  leave me here.  _Bruce_." He's still pleading, but now, there's a clear threat of violence under his breath. It must be something he'd grown up with, Bruce thinks, and it's not hard to guess where it comes from.  
  
It all makes so much sense. Bruce Wayne has always been attracted to Dick Grayson, but another thing he's always been attracted to is  _madness_ , he's courted it all his life, Selina, Talia, Jezebel Jet. It's what broke the barrier. It's why this version of Dick was like aphrodisiac to him. He's beautiful and he's mad, and he  _wants_  him. He wants him so badly he went insane over it, and there's a repulsive part of Bruce that's always craved that, always craved Dick looking at him with those red-rimmed, crazed, possessive eyes. It makes his cock itch even now.   
  
 _Talk to me. Look at me. Don't leave me._  All those things he's always wanted to hear him whisper. Now he got his wish, only it's a distorted, amplified, funhouse mirror version of it –  
  
And beneath that, beneath all the shock and the shame, the Batman-and-Robin and the Dick-and-Bruce of it, he realizes that what he's done is sleeping with an obsessed, unstable teenager, and now he has to take responsibility for it.  
  
How idiotic of him to think he could claim this prize, then not pay a toll for it.  
  
The phone keeps ringing and ringing. Bruce is terrified to answer, and terrified that it will fall silent before he can. From above, Dick is babbling at him, as if he could drown it out, his crazed words mirroring all of Bruce's most deranged convictions.  
  
"You think it's a coincidence that  _we_  met?! Huh? You wanted to  _do it_  with me, old man, and I was  _delivered_  to you, and you know why? Bruce? You know WHY? 'cause it's meant to be.  _We're meant to b-_ SHUT UP."  
  
His head shoots up and his face turns red as he snaps at the phone that's still incessantly ringing. He lets go of Bruce to put his hands over his ears, looking madder than ever. "SHUT UP. SHUT UP. MAKE IT _STOP_."  
  
"Dick. Robin. Here. Sssh."  
  
With some effort, he manages to pry his hands off of his ears. His heart is hammering. He's never dealt with Dick being like  _this_  before. Or rather, he's never dealt with  _this_  Dick before.  
  
"You have a life," he tells him, as calmly as he can. "You have a  _home_. You have a Batman, and …"  
  
 _Batman needs his Robin -_  
  
Dick's face goes from flushed to pale. His pretty mouth twists into a thin, harsh line. The glare he gives Bruce is almost one of  _hate_ , though Bruce isn't sure if that hate is directed at him.  
  
"He's not  _like_  you," Dick spits out, words bitter and poisonous. And filled with dread.  
  
Well; that much is obvious.  
  
"What's he done to you," Bruce asks again, whispering.  
  
Robin doesn't answer. He hangs his head, a dark expression on his face the likes of which Bruce has never seen on Dick before. He remembers how the boy had been flinching, as if he's expecting to get beaten at every turn, and a dreary image is forming in his head.  
  
He stares at him. The phone keeps ringing. Every sensible part of his brain is screaming at him to leave him behind, to not intervene. People weren't things; you couldn't simply  _take_  them. What was he even going to do with him? Lock him up in the Manor, never show him to anyone while he tried to fix this insanity that he felt partly responsible for? Or worse, let him warm his bed every night, feeding off the boy's obsession like a vampire? How was he ever to explain this boy to Damian? What was he going to tell Alfred? That Dick was so nice, he nabbed him  _twice_? (Which was what the Joker would say, if he knew about this, which hopefully he didn't.)  
  
And Dick – Nightwing –   
  
How was he ever going to look him in the eyes again, as rarely as he did lately … -  
  
He has to –  
  
" _No!_ " Robin tries to pin him to the bed with all his force, but of course, it's nothing to Batman once he makes up his mind. Removing Dick is like removing a small, delicate bird. Bruce rolls out of bed, and gets to his feet.  
  
"You can't – umph!"  
  
He hears a thump behind him as he heads towards the phone, and knows that it's Robin, who's gotten pulled out of bed while clinging to his cape. When he turns around, he sees him on all fours, glowering up at him, vest hanging open, costume torn by Bruce's greedy fingers and stained with his fluids.  
  
God, he's gorgeous.  
  
Bruce licks his lips. "Do you …" Heat creeps into his cheeks. "Do you have a clean costume somewhere?"  
  
A mad flicker of hope dashes across Dick's face. His natural grace surfaces again as he leaps to his feet. "Sure," he says slyly. "Why?"  
  
Bruce lets out a sigh. The shame won't let up, but his decision is made. "Go put it on. We're … we're both going."  
  
Dick's big, mad eyes widen, and for a second he looks so ecstatic that Bruce's heart starts to ache. But then, his face hardens again as he crosses his arms over his chest and declares, " _Fuck_  no."  
  
Bruce stirs. He's never heard Dick use that word before. He's not sure the one he knows ever did. It's … it's a little hot.  
  
"You think I'm  _stupid_ , Bruce?" Dick hisses, stepping closer, "You send me back down there like a good little lackey, and when I come back, you're  _gone_? That make it a little  _easier_  for you?"  
  
Bruce blinks at him. "You really think I'd do that to you," he mutters, actually a little wounded by that.  
  
Dick laughs. It's a harsh, mocking sound. Not the bold, carefree laugh Dick Grayson's known for, at all, but at this point Bruce is not surprised by that anymore. "I know  _someone_  who would," the boy says quietly.  
  
"I wouldn't." Bruce pulls down his cowl, so Dick can see his face. "I'm not abandoning you here, Robin. It's not in my nature," he says earnestly, and Dick laughs at that, too. But he grows quiet and tense again when he sees the older man reach for the red phone.   
  
Bruce offers him his gloved hand, the other hovering over the handle. "Come."  
  
It's dangerous. It's not smart. And he isn't sure what he's doing. But he needs to try and fix him, he  _needs_  to try.  _That_  is in his nature.  
  
Dick looks like he's about to cry, and Bruce is reminded that, even if he's crazy, he's still only a boy. And the boy doesn't only take his hand. He leaps forward, throwing himself at him, and Bruce feels his arms wrap themselves around his middle like vines when he pulls him into his cape, closes his eyes, and takes the call.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a warm, breezy night out in Gotham. And all in all, Dick Grayson, Nightwing, can think of worse ways to spend his time than a little game of catch down by the docks. It's just his luck, however, that the two players happen to be ten-feet-tall, venom-enhanced manbeasts, and he's the ball; because of course he is.  
  
"Throw him to me, Herbert, I'm wide open!" One of the behemoths booms, and then, to Dick, "We're gonna break your pretty little face, elf-man!"  
  
"Gee, thanks for notici –  _oop_!" Dick shoots through the warm air like a projectile as Herbert tosses him with brute force. Well; that's actually the best thing that could've happened. He flips mid-air, before the other giant's welcoming fists can receive him, lands safely on his feet, and then the two lumbering thugs groan in quick succession when they're both hit in the brow with a wingding.  
  
Nightwing laughs, but deep down inside, he fears death. He always does. It's one of the first things Batman has taught him, to never forget the presence of death. It's always with them, looming, one false movement, one hairline away, and he needs to remember it even when he's laughing and quipping, and flipping through the air, even when the adrenaline is shooting through his veins, when he's having  _fun_. He has his issues with the man, but that's a good lesson, one that has saved his life more than once.  
  
The hairs on his neck stand up as he hears a blood-curdling scream, a noise that signifies that the two monster-men are now done toying with him, and are going into killing mode. Fine. He's good for it.  
  
One of them – the one that had let out the battle cry – is now stumbling towards him, blindly slamming his fists in his direction while blood runs into his eyes. He's not exactly precise, but Dick knows he has to stay sharp – one kiss of that fist, and he's pancake batter.  
  
"Why can't you guys be jolly like the say in the movies?" He complains, diving through his opponent's massive legs to throw him off balance … only to find the other brute's shadow fall over him as he emerges.  
  
Whoops. These guys are definitely faster than they look.  
  
He sees the big thug grin with his tumor-infested mouth, and then a humongous fist swings at him –  
  
"HEY!"  
  
-missing him by and inch when a bag of sand suddenly flies at the giant's head and explodes on impact, robbing him of the rest of his vision. Dick's enormous foe howls, covering his hideous face with his big paws.  
  
Nightwing breathes a life-affirming sigh of relief. Pretty crude maneuver, but it's always nice to get some help in this city. He briefly gazes into the direction that the sandbag has come from –  
  
What he sees almost gets him killed.  
  
It's been years since he's seen someone in that costume outside of Halloween, and it's definitely not Halloween. The boy is standing on a nearby pile of shipping containers, hands on hips in a familiar pose, grinning as he watches Dick battle it out with the two brutes.  
  
His mind thinks for a split-second,  _Damian!?_ , but that can't be. The stature and complexion are all wrong, and Damian wouldn't get caught  _dead_  in that leotard, he's said that multiple times, even though no-one was asking. Still, Dick thinks he knows this kid. There's something about him, his smile, that gives him a sense of spooky  _déjà-vu_ …  
  
He stares until the boy's smile suddenly slips, and he screams, "Watch it!"  
  
And that's when Dick very nearly dies.  
  
He notices the growing shadow around himself in the nick of time, and rolls away a second before a large foot can ground him into mush. His heart is racing. That was a close one.  
  
He spins around on the ground, kicking his attacker's heels out from underneath him. "Seriously," he shouts, spitting out a mouthful of dirt, " _Never_  heard the term 'gentle giant'?  _Anyone_?"  
  
He's as loud and animated as he can;  _anything_  to distract the Demolition Brothers from that boy up there. His help had been very welcome, and Dick is totally going to buy him a giant cheeseburger meal for that later, but the kid doesn't know what he's getting himself into. These are some mean, next-level bruisers. If he thinks putting on a vintage Robin suit will make him invincible … Dick knows from his own experience how that can end badly really quick. He's not gonna let another kid go down in that suit.  
  
"Come and get me!" He chirps at his attackers, which is probably pretty unsubtle, but those two don't seem like the types for subtlety, anyway.  
  
Good thing that they have all the strength of a pair of freighters, but are about as graceful, too. Dick is busily zig-zagging between them, getting them to punch  _each other_  instead of him, but they're not getting as tired as he'd like them to. He's not exhausted, but he can already feel the strain. They're two, and he's one; he can't stop moving for even a second, or else they'll –  
  
He hears hollering, and his heart stops when a flurry of red, green and yellow drops from the sky.  
  
 _No please no -_  
  
That's when he sees the boy do a triple somersault in the air, and suddenly becomes very calm.  
  
 _Oh; he's got this._  
  
Robin lands firmly on Herbert's shoulders, making him roar and flail his arms around in an attempt to be rid of him. But to no avail. Now the boy is riding him like a pony, steering him into the containers he's been standing on, and he  _laughs_  while he does it, and Dick almost shivers with the recognition.  
  
No time to ponder, now.  
  
Now he only has one big bad bruiser to look out for, which means his work is getting indefinitely easier. And the dude is obviously off his game, startled out of his wits by the Teen Wonder's sudden appearance, which is exactly what Teen Wonders have always been good at. It gives Nightwing enough time to loosen the wire he always carries with him, and fashion a few nice, tight restraints for the thug and his buddy while he dodges his sluggish attacks. Slinging it around his feet and legs is a cakewalk.  
  
"Timber!" He calls out when his opponent drops into the dust, and it sounds as if Robin is totally finding that funny.  
  
They work together to tie the hulking, unconscious bodies into a neat package, both using the same type of knot. With a few injections of the antidote, the two monster-men will be shrinking back into decently-sized (and probably very frightened) bodybuilders in no time. Yep, these two will be going straight into the rehab program.   
  
When they're done, Robin hops on top of the thug pile and cockily, proudly sits on it, kicking his legs, which elicits a few soft grunts. Dick looks at him, and his adrenaline levels go off the charts, and it's not just the pleasure of a job well done. He can't make sense of it, but he  _knows_. He knows where he knows him from.  
  
It's eerie. And super cool. And eerie.  
  
"So," he finally says, casually leaning on their defeated opponents. "Thanks …  _me_?"  
  
The boy blushes at that, then he giggles, which only causes Dick's smile to widen.  
  
"Um." Robin (Dick needs to label him 'Robin' in his head, or else his skull will explode) looks down at his pixie boots for a moment, then scratches the back of his head, then looks at Dick again, still blushing.  
  
"So, I know this is weird, and it's hard to explain," he starts sheepishly, putting his hands up in a helpless gesture, "But … if I told you that the Batman from your world was dragged into my world because of some inter… inter-dimensional whatsit, and then he, uh, took me back with him, would you just. Would you just go with that?"  
  
Dick has to chuckle at his flusteredness. He gets it. He wouldn't know where to  _start_  explaining Zebra Batman or Zur-En-Arrh-Batman to someone, either.  
  
He smiles wryly. "Sure."  
  
"Oh, good."  
  
Robin looks almost shy when he smiles back at him. Dick can't stop grinning. Turns out, his last therapist  _had_  been right. He  _doesn't_  hate himself deep down inside. He looks at his mini-me, and all he wants to do is cuddle him and ruffle his hair and take him out for ice-cream, their favorite flavor, and then go kettcar racing with him, maybe.  
  
"You're  _adorable,_ " he titters, before he can help it.  
  
Robin scrunches up his nose, which is exactly what he would have done if someone had said that to him at that age.  
  
Dick covers his mouth, chuckling. "I'm … I'm sorry."  
  
Robin slides down the pile of goon, puts his hands on his hips again, and gives Dick a very,  _very_  close examination. It'd almost be a little weird, if Dick wasn't as curious about the kid as he is about him.  
  
"Hm," he finally makes, after he's done looking Nightwing up and down. "So.  _This_  is what I grow up to be?"  
  
It's Dick's turn to feel sheepish. His cheeks grow warm. "Yeah, I guess?" He can't resist showing off a little, pulls out an escrima stick and twirls it through the air. "Unless you come up with something better?"  
  
He squints at him, and then his heart almost bursts when he sees Robin look at his boots with a pleased little smile on his face, and hears him mumble, "Cool."  
  
It's a sweet, awkward moment, until Robin clears his throat and becomes all business, which is almost too cute for Dick to take.  
  
"Batman wanted to make sure you're, er, you're still in one piece," he reports. "'cause, you know, he brought  _me_  here and we're not sure what it did and whatnot. But there was  _this_  thing, and there was also the huge fire on Amusement Mile, and he didn't know which site you were at, so we split up."  
  
Finished, Robin grins, crossing his arms. He looks pleased with himself. "He was  _so_  sure you'd be at Amusement Mile," he scoffs. "His face'll be  _so_  red."  
  
There's something about the pure, direct affection in Robin's voice when he mentions Batman that makes Dick uncomfortable. But, hey, where this kid's from, him and the Bat are probably still bestest of friends, or something. Dick is not gonna ruin that for him, until it ruins itself.  
  
If Robin notices the slight shift in his mood, he doesn't mention it. "He's asked me to take you home," he says. "Batman. You coming?"  
  
"Home?" Dick furrows his brow. "Is that what he said?"  
  
They boy shoots him an odd look, but then he quickly corrects himself. "Uh, no. He said to bring you to base. He wants to talk. About. You know." He gestures at his person.  
  
Dick cocks a brow. "I sure hope so," he says dryly. He's still ailing from the last time Bruce had neglected sharing vital information with him, and at this point, he wouldn't even put it past him to acquire himself a Mini-Dick, and then not talk about it.  
  
The kid's cheeks flush with excitement at that. "Can we go? Please? I wanna see the look on his face when he sees I found you first!"  
  
Dick stays silent. The idea of talking to his mentor fills him with the exact opposite of excitement. He hasn't quite forgiven him for what he and the others had went through these past months, culminating with that night in Arkham; a harsh, cruel reminder of the level of hubris that Bruce is operating on, how quick he is to dismiss them, even if they'd all die for him. It had become hard to face him after that. Dick is still responding to his distress calls, whenever Bruce isn't too stubborn to send one out. He still watches his back. He cares. But putting some distance between himself and Batman had been … refreshing. Especially since Bruce's meandering attempts at seeking forgiveness tend to be short-lived, and then he pulls the rug out again, like he … like he kinda does now. With this. Seeing Robin, seeing  _himself_  so eager to do Bruce's bidding, tail practically wagging, it drags up memories that hurt.  
  
And you can't even say that Dick is making things all about himself when they aren't, since this time, it's  _literally_  about himself. The more he thinks about the whole situation, the more uncomfortable he gets.  
  
However; it's hardly the boy's fault.  
  
He shrugs. "All right. I'm  _really_  kinda curious to hear the long version of  _this_  story," he says. He almost thinks he sees Robin shoot him a sly look at that. Maybe he's put off by the obvious sarcasm in Dick's voice. But he seems far too eager to deliver him to Batman to get into it.  
  
They're already on the way to Nightwing's bike when Dick notices something else.  
  
"Boy, your costume looks pretty rough," he observes good-naturedly. It really does. All rumpled, and with weird stains on it. It's hard to believe that Batman had even let him go out like that. He really must've been in a hurry to find him. "Ran into trouble along the way?"  
  
Robin blushes at that. He starts fidgeting with his vest. "Eh," he says, a little too casually, "We were kind of in a rush."  
  
Something about the way he says it sticks out to Dick. He presses his lips together. And then it hits him like a sack of bricks, why this is so weird, why it bothers him so much, even though his mini-me is the most adorable thing ever; and he wants to smack himself for not realizing it earlier.  
  
Bruce  _took_  him from somewhere.  
  
He'd been world-hopping again – which might not have been his fault, to be fair – and then he somehow ended up with a teenaged Dick Grayson, and he saw him, and he simply  _took_  him. Dick – the grown-up one – doesn't talk to him for a few months, and he finds himself a younger, more eager, more devoted version, and takes him home with him. Like he's his to take.   
  
It's messed up.  
  
And he kinda wants to see Bruce's face when he tries to explain to him how it's  _not_  messed up.  
  
"Fine," he mutters through his teeth, when he and the little one take a seat on his bike, and kicks the ignition. "Let's hear it."


	3. Chapter 3

They're down in the tunnels leading to the Batcave when they hear footsteps and agitated voices. Or, more precisely, one very bossy, agitated voice.  
  
"They're here! I have to see!"  
  
"Damian. Slow down."  
  
Dick sees Robin stiffen when he hears Bruce's voice ring out to them. It's a little weird. But he's quickly distracted by the other voice coming towards them.  
  
" _Tt_ ,  _no_  way. You cannot tell me you have a tiny version of Grayson, Father, and then ask me to  _slow down_."  
  
"He's not  _tiny_  –" Bruce grumbles, dark voice echoing from the walls.  
  
"Oh boy, here we go," Dick mutters, corners of his mouth twitching.  
  
A shadow creeps towards them on the wall, and then Damian bursts around the corner, wearing his own Robin suit, face dark and taut with excitement. Bruce is right on his heels, dark cape swooping behind him, face unreadable.  
  
Damian stops dead when he sets his eyes on the other Robin; and Robin, next to Dick, does the same.  
  
"Oh," they both say at once, and the instant dislike is downright  _chilling_.  
  
Dick looks from one to the other.  _Right_. Robin is older than Damian is, but they're both close enough in age to compete with each other. It's bad enough with Tim. And now Bruce has dragged another dark-haired, blue-eyed kid into it, and they're both Robins, on top of it. There can only be one at a time; Bruce of all people should've known better.  
  
Who would've thought that seeing his mentor again wouldn't be the  _most_  uncomfortable part of this.  
  
"Relax, Damian." Dick tries a smile, even though the situation weirds him out on oh-so-many levels. "He's me."  
  
Well, Damian likes  _him_  at least, right? Batman And Robin Will Never Die?  
  
"I can see that," the son of the Bat intones, lips pursed, but the look he gives Robin doesn't get friendlier, at all. "Nice  _suit_ ," he drawls. "If you can  _call_  it that."  
  
"Hey –" Dick raises his voice in protest, but the two teens ignore him.  
  
"Yeah? Right back at you," Robin sneers at the younger kid, "Is that a  _hood_? D'you know what any thug with half a brain will do with a  _hood_?"  
  
"Tch, perhaps if you're  _slow_ , and  _bad_  at your  _job_  -"  
  
Robin is shockingly quick to curl his fists up at that. Damian does the same. Dick's gaze flickers over to Bruce, who watches the scene unfold with a remarkably helpless look on his face, and can't suppress a grin. Yeah. Good luck with that.  
  
Bruce catches Dick grinning at him, and it prompts him to finally take charge of the situation. Or try to, at least. "Damian!" He barks, and then, "Dick!"  
  
"Yeah?" Both Graysons respond at the same time.  
  
Bruce looks flat-out exasperated. Dick can't fight the Schadenfreude tunneling through his system. Batman's in over his head. He's  _so_  in over his head. The older man is visibly fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Can we.  _Please_. All head into the situation room so we can  _talk_  about this."  
  
"What's there to talk about?" Damian snaps. "I insist that  _tiny Grayson_  get out of those rags immediately, he's making a mockery out of my position –"  
  
"Hey, I did some excellent work in  _those rags_  –" Dick pipes up.  
  
"I'm  _taller_  than you - " Robin hisses at Damian, a nasty threat in his voice.  
  
" _Everyone_  - " Batman growls.  
  
"Gentlemen."  
  
They all turn around when the fifth voice joins the fray, and tempers cool down immediately. It's Alfred, master of defusion, carrying a tray with tea and sandwiches. He's as poised at ever, but then he spots Robin, and his face lights up.  
  
"My  _word_ ," he says warmly. But he doesn't seem surprised. Bruce must have prepped him in advance.  
  
Alfred looks from Nightwing to Robin with a twinkle in his gentle eyes. "This is the most beautiful photo opportunity I was ever not allowed to take," he remarks, shooting Bruce a quick glance. Dick can see Robin relax under the butler's friendly gaze; he obviously trusts him, and Dick is pleased to know that some things are the same no matter which universe. Damian pouts when he sees them exchange a brief smile.  
  
"Pennyworth is  _our_  butler," He mumbles, lest Robin get any ideas.  
  
"I am the butler of this  _house_ , Master Damian," Alfred points out politely, "And if you all don't mind me intervening, I think the situation room is an  _excellent_  idea. I will be serving there. Feel free to follow me."  
  
He's speaking softly, but with authority; no Bat or Bird would ever think of disobeying the man. They walk the rest of the way in a small procession. Damian and Robin seem to be competing over who gets to walk closer to Batman, bumping into each other in a progressively hostile way in the narrow tunnel. Dick isn't sure if he should laugh, or step in before one of them starts slamming the other one's face into the wall. Damian is a fierce kid, and Robin … Robin seems a little more aggressive than Dick remembers himself being. But that might be rose-tinted glasses, who knows. He has to chuckle despite himself when Batman eventually gets fed up with both of them, and gently grabs them by the capes to drag them along. Ah. Not-so-sweet nostalgia.  
  
They reach the situation room without further incident. When they step in, Bruce holds Dick back at the door. He leans in confidentially, while at the same time keeping a respectful distance. He seems a little awkward with him, but that makes sense. They haven't spoken in a while, and now Dick finds out that Bruce has been hanging out with a teenage version of him, which is both sad and creepy as all get-out.  
  
"Thank you for coming," Bruce says quietly. "Really, I appreciate it."  
  
Dick can tell that he means it; he can also tell that he's genuinely sorry about the radio silence between them. But he doesn't smile, doesn't acknowledge the thanks. He's still mad at him, and besides, whatever the hell is going on here, he's brought it on himself.  
  
"It'll make sense in a minute," Bruce promises him through clenched teeth. It's easy to tell that he really wants Dick to believe it.  
  
"Doesn't it always," Dick replies dryly.  
  
That's what Bruce never seems to get. It's not about  _making sense_. Batman  _always_  has reasons, and they  _always_  make sense on some level, but that doesn't make the things he does less off-putting or hurtful.   
  
Bruce frowns and makes an odd gesture, as if he wants to touch Dick's arm but can't quite bring himself to do it. Instead of wondering about it, Dick looks over Batman's shoulder at Robin and Damian, who are morosely claiming a mounted car skeleton and an examining table to sit on, respectively, because no Robin can just sit down in a chair normally, ever. Then, he gives the older man a comforting, but sarcastic pat.  
  
"Well,  _pal_ , looks like you need all the help you can get," he quips, then walks past Bruce to hop onto the desk.  
  
As soon as he sits down, Damian scrambles over to squat next to him, still pouting. Obviously, his father is not the  _only_  adult in the room he feels territorial about. Dick isn't sure if he should feel flattered, or drop his face in his hands at the madness of it all.  
  
He leans over to his little former partner. "Give him a chance?" He whispers.  
  
Across from them, Robin has received some tea and a sandwich from a doting Alfred and is tucking in with great appetite, while Damian stares at him with a look of cold disdain on his face. In his ragged, stained tunic, with his bruised shins and arms, his face and ruffled hair still covered in dirt from their little riverside adventure, he really looks more like a street ruffian than a squeaky clean Teen Wonder. Dick thinks it's endearing. Robin sees him looking, stops chewing and shoots him a grin with his mouth full.  
  
"Ugh," Damian mutters next to him. "Grayson, please tell me you were never like  _that_."  
  
"I'm  _still_  like that, especially when I'm hungry, and you know it," he replies cheerfully, mirroring Robin's grin.  
  
Damian scoffs. "If I fought him, you'd still root for  _me_  though, ri –  _oh come on_ ," he ends with a frown when he sees Dick cast him a warning look.  
  
"I can hear you, ya know," Robin comments, chowing down on his sandwich, "Havin' my legs out doesn't make me  _deaf_." He swallows, flashing Damian a cocky, remarkably cruel smile. "And, I'd kick your a – "  
  
He stops mid-profanity when his eyes meet Batman's. As soon as he sees Bruce take his place in the center of the room, he hops off the car's hood and busily flits over to be by his side. He climbs a metal bar behind him so he can loom over his shoulder, like a pet bird. Dick bites his lip. Had he  _really_  been this clingy? That's a little -   
  
Bruce clears his throat, and the entire room looks at him. Now both Bruce and Dick have a Robin peeking over their shoulders. Dick isn't sure anymore if this is a real situation, or a bizarre, semi-therapeutic waking dream about their combined issues or something. The only person looking remotely not ridiculous is Alfred in the corner, who does  _not_  have an eager teenager attached to his hip.  
  
Meanwhile, Bruce starts the talks with a quickfire round of "well done"s, which is another clear sign that he feels he needs to make up for something. He compliments Damian for his quick intervention at the burn site downtown, then thanks Robin for aiding Nightwing down at the docks. Dick watches Robin's cheeks glow at that.  
  
"He would've died if it wasn't for me!" The teenager blurts out excitedly, before Bruce can turn to Dick to deploy some praise in his direction. Dick feels a strange knot in his stomach when he realizes that his mini-me is not above competing with  _himself_ , either. He kinda wants to point out that Robin's appearance had been what had almost gotten him killed, in the first place, but it seems childish. Damian and Robin are already vying for approval hard enough. Dick doesn't … he  _shouldn't_  need it.  
  
"I sincerely doubt that, Robin," Bruce tells him firmly, and then his voice thaws a little when he adds, "Nightwing is one of the best. He's in a class of his own."  
  
"Yeah, he's  _really_  good," Damian barks next to him, which sounds very much like  _Suck it, tiny Grayson!_  Dick crosses his arms, frowning. He'd usually be moved to hear both Damian  _and_  Bruce acknowledge his abilities, but it feels as if this whole exchange isn't about him, at all.  
  
Robin hangs his head, humbled. But the pout on his face looks grim. "You did good, kid," Dick tells him quietly, because it feels like he needs to hear it; and because it's true. "Nice work."  
  
Robin's mouth twitches, but his head stays low, and overall it seems as if it would've meant more coming from Batman.  
  
There's something gentle in Bruce's expression when he looks at the kid. " _That_  I don't doubt."  
  
"Eh. You weren't there," Robin mumbles, but now he's smiling to himself.  
  
Dick watches them both, unsure what to think or feel.  
  
Bruce turns to him next. "Di – Nightwing. Would it be all right if I gave Robin one of your old suits to wear? His is. Not fit to be worn."  
  
Dick narrows his eyes. That's a weird,  _weird_  question for Bruce to ask. Sure, Dick is somewhat attached to that uniform, but … well, Bruce hadn't asked before he'd put Jason Todd in it. And then later, Tim had put it on when Dick had refused to wear it again. It doesn't seem like his to give away. He understands that Bruce is attempting to show him some sort of courtesy by asking that, but … it's coming a little late in the game, really.  
  
"Uh," he shrugs. "Sure." He looks over at his smaller counterpart. "You  _do_  look like you've been through the wringer," he smiles.  
  
Robin looks weirdly proud at that.   
  
Bruce looks uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "Alfred. Would you please show Robin the wardrobe and help him pick something that suits him? Thank you. Robin, go with Alfred. Go ahead, it's fine."  
  
The teen looks a little miffed to give up his plum spot next to Batman, but the prospect of mulling through Dick's old stuff seems to be incentive enough. "Yes, Sir," he says, almost achingly obedient, "Right away, Sir!"  
  
Dick can tell it takes Damian every little bit of restraint not to imitate him. Alfred, on the other hand, seems completely thrilled to show the boy around. He puts a paternal arm around him as Robin bounces away with him.  
  
Damian waits until they're barely out of earshot. "Why even give him a suit?!" He hisses at his father. "He's not  _going_  to be Robin.  _I am._  You're not thinking about going on patrol with  _him_  instead, are you – no offense, Grayson –"  
  
"None taken," Dick responds dryly. In a way, he's relieved that Damian has started ranting, so  _he_  doesn't have to be the one addressing all this weirdness.  
  
"I'm – I'm putting my foot down," Damian pouts, and Dick can see that he's as nervous about losing the cape as every boy has been before him. He probably remembers how he got the suit, himself – because Dick had taken it from Tim, and given it to him. And now the first, the very first to wear it had somehow returned.  
  
"It's not about taking him on patrol, Damian." Bruce comes closer, lowering his deep voice. "I want him to feel safe. That's important. I need to work with him. That's why I took him. That's why I … I  _had_  to take him."  
  
Now that Dick sees him up close again, and now that Robin and Alfred are gone, he notices something. Bruce looks tired and tense, yes, that isn't new, but he also looks … distraught, almost. As if something is eating away at him. And before he knows it, that dumb part of him that can't bear to see him like this rears its head.  
  
"Bruce, what's wrong," he asks quietly. Even Damian grows quiet, now that he's starting to understand that his father has sent Robin to fetch a suit partly so he could talk to them, in private.  
  
Bruce's jaw seems to almost tremble a little. He seems distressed. "It may not be immediately obvious, but. He's … he's not well."  
  
It gives Dick a sinking feeling in his stomach. But somehow, he's not surprised. As adorable as the kid is, there is something … off about him. "What - what do you mean?" He asks anxiously. "Is he … sick? Is he …"  
  
Bruce's voice is hollow. "I think he's being mistreated. I think he's being abused."  
  
Dick's eyes widen. He feels a sudden hot, searing pain in his chest. He and Robin aren't related by blood, of course, and they may not even technically be the same person, but the idea of someone hurting him, it cuts deep.  
  
But before he can say anything, he hears Damian scoff.  
  
" _Tt_ , and he  _took_  it? Not much of a Robin, is he? He doesn't seem to have a lot going for him –"  
  
For a moment, it looks as if Bruce will slap his son in the face. Dick hasn't seen him that cold and furious in a long time. And Damian sees it, too, which is obvious from the way all color leaves his face as his father sets his eyes on him.  
  
"No-one  _chooses_  to be abused," Bruce hisses at him, cold rage in his voice. "It's  _never_  the victim's fault. It's not about  _weakness_. This is the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say, Damian. I'm disappointed in you."  
  
Damian looks startled and hurt. Dick can't help but flinch at Bruce's words along with him. He's entirely right, but it still seems harsh.  
  
"You're right." Damian lowers his gaze, turning into a timid little boy again under his father's scrutinizing stare. His lip is trembling "I'm … I'm sorry, Father."  
  
"All right," Bruce huffs, visibly still angry, but trying to calm down. "Don't forget it."  
  
There's a pause until Dick speaks up. "So … what happened," he asks reluctantly. "Who would – "  
  
He says no more when Bruce doesn't answer, and averts his gaze instead. A cold chill runs down his spine when he understands.  
  
 _Oh_  
  
Part of Dick's brain won't even hear it. The thought alone makes him nauseous. But … he's no stranger to alternate versions of people he knows. He's seen worlds in which Superman was an evil dictator, he's seen versions of Bruce himself turn monstrous under some harmful influence. If there's one thing he knows, it's that this is not impossible, even if every fiber of his being refuses it.  
  
He has to hold on to the edge of the desk for support; he feels dizzy. He hears Bruce softly say, "Dick …"  
  
It's quiet until Damian mumbles, "That's  _so_  creepy," summing up what they're all probably thinking.  
  
Dick looks up again as soon as he feels ready. "Anything I can do to help," he tells Bruce. "Seriously, anything."  
  
For some reason, Bruce seems abashed by that. "You've already done enough," he mumbles.  
  
That's … another strange thing to say. Dick hasn't done anything yet, except for coming here.  
  
"It's going to be temporary," Bruce continues, still looking away. "I  _know_  it's wrong to keep him here. And I've discussed it with him, too. But I want him to get better. In the meantime, I will find a way to breach into his world again, so I can find …  _the other one_. And then, him and me will have  _words_."  
  
It's clear from his tone that those  _words_  will include all of his knuckles. It gives Dick a sort of dark satisfaction.  
  
Bruce exhales deeply. "All I ask for is your patience," he says to Damian, a little friendlier again. He looks reluctant when he turns to Dick. "And you … I can only hope you understand …"  
  
Dick nods. He understands. He also understands, however, that there's more to this that Bruce isn't telling him. He seems honest about the part he  _is_  telling them, but … Dick's known him for too long; it's impossible for him not to notice that he's holding out. But maybe this is not the right time to ask all these questions –   
  
"You have  _a bunch_  of stuff back there!"  
  
All three of them flinch a little, but Robin seems too excited to notice. Or perhaps he doesn't care. Now that Dick knows what he thinks he knows, Robin's big grin seems a little more strained than before. But he doesn't miss a step as he strides toward their little group along with Alfred, in a fresh suit and busily chatting away.  
  
"What's up with all those fedoras and mustaches and wigs? We …  _he_  doesn't have that many costumes. Do you dress up all the time? Is that a thing? We never – "  
  
He stops abruptly when something on the other side of the room catches his eye. Dick follows his gaze, and swallows.  
  
Oh boy; he's found the memorial case.  
  
Dick and Damian both watch, somewhat mortified, as he approaches the bright Robin uniform behind the glass and examines it with interest, curiously plugging on his lower lip. "What's this for?" He wonders.  
  
Dick casts a nervous glance in Bruce's direction, but the older man seems at a loss for words. He'd always been especially vulnerable when it came to this case.  
  
It's Damian who speaks up. "That's for Jason Todd, the second Robin," he explains, not unkindly. He's obviously pitching in an effort to be less of a jackass towards Robin now, because deep down Damian isn't a bad kid. "He died. It's okay though, he came back to life. There was also a girl Robin, the fourth one, and she almost died as well, but she's Batgirl now. I'm the fifth. And actually," he adds, probably in a bid to impress the other boy, " _I_  nearly died, too, a few months ago when my Mother made me fight that clone of mine, but I prevailed."  
  
Robin has a strong reaction to that. Which isn't surprising, considering how insane a lot of it sounds. What's weird, though, is that he doesn't focus on "he died and came back to life", or "my mother sent my clone to kill me", but –  
  
His smooth cheeks grow flaming red. His hands are turning into fists in their green gloves, and his laser-guided glare goes directly to Bruce when he roars, "There's been  _five_?!"  
  
He sounds like a scorned girlfriend. Dick … Dick really wants to go lie down somewhere.  
  
"I never," the corners of Bruce's mouth are drooping. "I never planned for it to turn out that way."   
  
He sounds solemn, almost defeated. There's something about this kid that seriously throws him off his game, it seems.  
  
Robin's fierce mouth flies open in protest.  
  
"So  _hey_!" Dick leaps off the desk, clapping his hands and getting back in on the action, even though he feels more and more weirded out with every freaky minute. He turns to the enraged teen, smiling. "The night isn't over yet. How 'bout I give you the tour? We could scale some rooftops together. You can show me all your tricks, and I can show you  _our_  Gotham. And I promise I'll tell you anything you wanna know. C'mon," he adds, when Robin keeps pouting, "You can't meet your doppelganger, and then  _don't_  hang out with them, right? It'll be fun."  
  
He does it partly to adjourn this ultra-strange meeting, but most of it is genuine. Now that he knows what the kid has apparently been through, he wants to do something nice for him more than ever. Besides … Dick knows how hard it is to open up about matters like that, and perhaps it would be easier for the boy to talk about it with, well, with himself. Perhaps he could get something out of him. Help him somehow. If not, they could at least still have fun.  
  
Robin looks intrigued. But then, he immediately looks at Batman for comment or permission. He cocks his head to the side like a curious bird. "Can I go? I'll be good. Promise." A small smile plays around his lips as his gaze darts back and forth between Bruce and Dick. "I'll use  _discretion_."  
  
That seems like an odd choice of words. "Uh. Don't worry," Dick mumbles, a little thrown off. "I wasn't gonna take you to Park Row and start lighting Bentleys on fire."  
  
Bruce seems to ponder the suggestion for a moment. "That's an excellent idea," he then concludes, though he looks like he's passing a gall stone as he says it, "Thank you, Dick."  
  
"Yes!" Robin pumps his fist into the air, which looks very cute, though the quick mood shift seems a little disquieting; however, Dick himself had hardly been  _normal_  at that age, as far as he comprehended what that was.  
  
Before they leave, Bruce comes over to him once more. "Nightwing. We'll talk later," he says quietly. "I promise."  
  
"All right. Get in touch," Dick tells him, and it feels so awkward, as if they're not former partners, best friends, blood brothers, but strange, stilted acquaintances. But he decides not to make this his number one problem right now. And really, the number of times he's heard Bruce make that promise …  
  
It's when Robin goes to say goodbye to Batman before they leave that one last strange thing happens. Only it's not that strange, actually. It's pretty familiar. Dick sees him sweetly bite his lip before he smiles. Then he breathes, "Okay, seeya later," in that  _tone_ , tugging a strand of black hair back behind his ear like a flustered schoolgirl. He looks like he has to try hard not to flirtily run his gloved finger down the older man's armored chest. And it tells Dick everything he needs to know.  
  
He cringes. "Hey, you coming?" He calls out, trying to sound chipper. "The city's waiting,"  _and I really really need to get out of this cave_.  
  
Damian strolls over to stand next to his father as they watch the two Graysons take off together.  
  
"I  _really_  want to know what these two are going to talk about," he confesses, as soon as they're gone. He's still a little shaken by the verbal lashing he's received – even though he understands why it had happened – but the fact that Father is still talking to him has rekindled his confidence. Besides, all of this is too interesting to keep quiet about it.  
  
His heart does a happy little leap when his father puts a hand on his shoulder. "You will," Batman announces. "We are trailing them."


	4. Chapter 4

It's almost 3 am when they find themselves on a rooftop with a cool view of the cathedral, and lie down to look at the sky. The city's lights seem muted, but they haven't died down completely. In Gotham, they never do. Since the fire and the mutant attack this evening, there hasn't even been a Bat signal to distract them.  
  
It's been fun. If there's one thing Dick knows, it's that no matter how weird you are or how much trouble you find yourself in, a nightly dive always makes life seem bright and easy. They hitch rides atop the subway cars speeding through the city, then challenge each other to a chase across multiple roofs. They have this cool thing where sometimes, they can anticipate each other's movements like they're telepathic, and sometimes they completely surprise each other. Dick is at the top of his game, he can go faster and higher than ever before in his life, having internalized the skill-sets of Robin, Nightwing  _and_ Batman. But Robin is quick and nimble and utterly carefree, and his lithe body allows him access to corners that Dick can't reach anymore. Seeing it makes Dick laugh and gasp and holler, while also making his heart hurt with nostalgia.  
  
They interrupt their game to stop a stick-up at a Seven Eleven. Small Potatoes, but Dick still has to stop Robin from kicking a scrawny punk's face into the ATM machine.  
  
"It's how we do things," the kid says, shrugging, as he lets off the whimpering crook.  
  
The vendor is really grateful however, and loads them up with free hot dogs and slushies and candy bars despite Dick's polite insistence that vigilantes don't do bartering. But Robin looks kinda hungry, and Dick could eat something, so they end up on that roof, splitting the loot between them.  
  
Dick isn't sure anymore if he should ask him stuff, at all. Maybe it'll only make him uncomfortable. If what Bruce says is true, he'll be around for a while anyway, and there'll be another chance. They've barely spoken since they'd left the cave, save for shouting quips and taunts at each other, and it seems to make Robin so happy. Dick had always been happy doing that, too. They're very similar that way. If the choice was to talk about your problems, or crack wise and hop off a ledge, it was always wise-cracking and ledge-hopping; he has a very deep understanding of that.  
  
"I kicked the Penguin off this roof once, I think," he remarks after some silence, looking around for confirmation. "Yep, I remember that crack over there; this is the one. He had that gigantic death ray canon with him, super impractical. Penguins should never go this high." He raises his head to lazily point at another roof, three buildings across. "And over there … Deathstroke, I think. And that one over there – I wanna say alien invasion, but don't quote me on that –"  
  
"So." The crushed ice rattles in its cup when Robin abruptly puts his drink down. Dick isn't sure if he's been listening at all. "How'd you screw it up?"  
  
Dick blinks up at him. "Screw what up?"  
  
"You know." The boy sits up, parking his chin on his bruised knees. He sounds impatient, and Dick realizes he's been waiting to ask this for a while. "Why'd he kick you out?"  
  
"He didn't –"  
  
Dick pauses.  
  
Well, uh. Well, technically speaking, yeah, Bruce had kicked him out back then. There's no way around it. "I didn't screw up," he says, barely pulling his teeth apart. It still hurts to hear it put like that, and he hates that a little. He props himself up on his elbow to watch Robin.  
  
"Do you think that's the only way not to be Robin anymore?" He asks gently. "To screw up?"  
  
The kid snorts. "How else?"  
  
"Maybe because you decide you want to do something new? Make a name for yourself, try new challenges," Dick suggests. He's unsure who he wants to convince here. "Y'know, change ain't bad." That much is true. And if Dick is honest, he loves how his life has turned out, for the most part. He's proud of who he is. It doesn't change the fact that he'd been an aimless, depressed sack of sad for a while when Bruce had split with him.  
  
It's almost like the kid knows. How could he not; he's him. "What  _really_  happened," he pries on, unimpressed.  
  
Dick sighs. He closes his eyes. "I was shot."  
  
"Ah," Robin says quietly. If he's compassionate, or worried for himself, he doesn't show it.  
  
"It was pretty severe. Bruce thought I might die. And when I didn't, he … he decided it'd be best for me if I …"  
  
He stops again, bites his lip. The fact that Bruce had thought he could  _decide_  that for him still makes him mad. He realizes that Bruce had been as terrified of him getting killed as he had been when he'd thought Bruce had died, but … but still …  
  
It's not as if he has to say any more, though, since Robin is clearly getting the gist of it. "Hrm," he makes, after letting it sink in, and drops down on his back again. And then: "You shouldn't have gotten shot, then."  
  
Dick spins around to him, anger flaring for a moment. He doesn't need to hear that, the least of all from this … from himself. " _Dude_  -"  
  
Robin turns his head to him. "What."  
  
Dick's anger collapses in on itself and is replaced by a melancholy feeling when he looks at the kid in the red and green suit. And realizes that, at this point in his life, Robin would always, always take Batman's side, against everyone, even if that someone was Dick Grayson. Whatever Batman – his Batman – had done to him, it hadn't been enough to make him hate him, and sadly Dick isn't surprised by that, at all.  
  
He thinks back on that scene down in the cave, and can't resist. "You know," he says after a fashion, tentatively, delicately, "When I was your age, I … I had a crush on him, too."  
  
He'd somehow expected Robin to blush, or fidget, or loudly deny everything (which is what he would have done), but the boy stays weirdly calm. He turns toward him with newly rekindled interest. His voice is hoarse. But a little meek, too, as if he's humbled to share this with someone. "Yeah…?"  
  
Dick sputters out an embarrassed laugh when he realizes he's never admitted this to anybody before, not to Babs, not to Roy or Kory, not to Tim, obviously. But … well, saying it to Robin – to Dick – now, it's like saying it into a mirror.   
  
Except for how it isn't, at all.  
  
"Yeah – um," he runs his fingers through his hair. He's said it to get  _Robin's_  reaction, but now  _he's_  the one who's flailing, as those queasy, awkward memories flood his brain. His voice gets a little more high-pitched even, with the result that him and the kid don't sound that different, now. "I know how it is. It's … it's rough," he squeaks. "Spending almost every waking moment with someone you look up to so much, trying so hard to be the best you can, and suddenly you have to deal with those, those butterflies in your stomach, and … your pants …"  
  
Oh boy, why is he still talking. He should've stopped talking a full minute ago. Dick feels hot, grabs his drink and downs it in a few thirsty gulps. That was such a long time ago, though. Sure, sometimes, he still feels that, that  _draw_  when he's standing close Bruce, but that's okay, he's made his peace with it. He's not gonna fall down that rabbit hole. He knows that Bruce Wayne, Batman, remains forever unattainable; easy to fall for (to him, at least), impossible to have a relationship with.   
  
Dick winces. He feels like a tool; this kid, this Robin, he probably has a boatload of complicated, messed-up feelings for whatever Bruce he knows, and now here's his adult self, babbling about his dumb crush. The conversation doesn't seem to hurt or frighten Robin, however. He looks at Dick through the whited-out lenses of his domino, absorbing every word he says. It almost seems like his nostrils are flaring, but it's hard to tell in the dark.  
  
"And?" He asks after a while, when he realizes Dick isn't continuing. His tone is sharp. "Then what? Did you do stuff with him?"  
  
Before he can help it, Dick barks out another startled laugh. He feels terrible about it, because the look Robin is giving him is not funny at all, and this topic is not funny at all, either.  
  
"Heavens, no!" He blurts out. "No. No no. I mean, that … that would have been …"  
  
There's something almost accusing in Robin's voice when he asks, "That woulda been  _what_."  
  
Dick falls silent. The last thing he wants is for Robin to feel like a freak, for something he has no control over. He kinda wants to put a comforting arm around him, but he doesn't want to touch him without permission, either. He shoots him a concerned look, letting the nightly breeze cool his very hot face.  
  
"You know," he says quietly, leaning over to him. "It's just that … sometimes, when you really admire someone, and when you love them, you think they're perfect. And that they can do no wrong. But they can, and they do. They'll do things that hurt you, that are dangerous, that are  _wrong_. And it's okay to question that, and it's okay to get- get out of- "  
  
He isn't sure if Robin understands what he's struggling to express, and he'd never find out. Because right then, a plucky little grin flits across the boy's face, and he grabs Dick's head with both hands, digging his fingers into his soft hair as he pulls him down, and kisses him, kisses  _himself_  on the mouth.  
  
It's a coy, teenage kiss at first, then it turns into something almost unbearably needy and tender. Dick shudders when he feels Robin's tongue slide into his mouth. Robin –  _Dick_  – lets out a little sigh, and then slings a bare leg around his waist, squeezing his stiff, frozen body. He's stroking his older self's face with his gloved hands, nibbling and sucking on his mouth with raw, curious affection, and then Dick feels him press his cup against him with no reservations.  
  
All in all, it doesn't last longer than perhaps four seconds before Dick gets it together and pries the kid off, but it feels like soul-tainting, sanity-destroying eternity. He's shaking, heat and cold washing over his body in relentless alternation. He feels nauseous.   
  
He sure hadn't anticipated  _that_.  
  
"Wh-what the –" He gargles.  
  
Robin's smile is not cute or adorable at all. "Oh c'mon," he purrs, still kneeling spread-legged above him, "Like  _you_  didn't wanna know what it's like."  
  
"I- I didn't –"  
  
Dick shivers, presses the back of his hand to his mouth, cold sweat dribbling from his brow. He feels violated. Robin snickers and reaches down to touch his cheek. "Don't be a –"  
  
He yelps when Dick shoves him off to get to his feet. His knees are shaking. He doubles over, pressing one hand on his thigh for support, and uses the other to point a warning finger in Robin's direction.  
  
"Young man," he gasps, 'cause he doesn't know what else to say, "Do not. Do that again. Not to me. Not to anyone. Understood?"  
  
"Aw, what's the big deal?" The kid protests, pouting at him from the floor. "It's like doing it with  _myself_ , ain't it? Don't tell me you don't do that."  
  
"You're sixteen," Dick groans.  
  
Robin chuckles. "Really?  _That's_  your problem? So if I was you but older, that'd be cool?"  
  
Dick thinks about that perhaps a moment longer than necessary. "No," he then mumbles, rubbing his burning cheeks with his hands, "That'd still be like doing … doing it with a relative –"  
  
"Psh, how would I know?" Robin shrugs. "I'm an orphan."  
  
Dick tears his hands off his face, and stares at him. Bruce is right. Something has happened to this kid, something that's really messed with his head. It turns his stomach, yet he still wants to take him into his arms and squeeze him and keep him safe. But then he'd probably try to make out again.  
  
"You hate me now," Robin says, gloved hands on his thighs. "You think I'm gross."  
  
It breaks Dick's heart. "No," he says softly. "No, that's not at all what -"  
  
"Eh, I should probably head back, anyway. It's really late." The boy gets up, straightening his collar and cape. He sounds dismissive, but he seems faintly crushed as he avoids looking at his grown-up self. Dick's heart clenches up when he realizes how badly this kid wants someone, someone older, to tell him he's not bad.  
  
"Robin," he whispers. "Dick. Really, it's okay. It's gonna be okay."  
  
"Sure." Robin is already stepping up to the ledge, grappling hook in hand. "It's been real, Nightwing. I'll be seeing you. 'night."  
  
"R –"  
  
But he's already gone, swept up by Gotham's breezy night air.

\-----  
  
It would've been easy to chase after him; but Dick chooses not to. It'd only mean opening up another freaky chapter in this bizarre saga he's been tossed into, and he isn't sure if that would benefit anybody right now, not without a good night's sleep in between for all of them.  
  
Who would've thought that battling two killer mutants in a shipyard would be the  _easiest_  part of his day.  
  
He heads home, deciding he'd give Batman a quick call to make sure that Robin got there back okay. He has no doubts that Bruce is still up, probably busily tinkering with solutions for this latest problem, and nervously awaiting the return of his new protégé.  
  
So he's a little surprised when he comes into his apartment, and finds Bruce there, towering dark and silent in his living room, waiting for him.  
  
He's not surprised that he'd found his way in; Bruce had never had any trouble with that. But he's surprised to see him actually make true on his promise. That's … nice, even though he's not sure he's really keen on having another talk tonight. Dick yawns, too exhausted to even feel weird about having Bruce there for the first time in what feels like ages. It's odd - despite all the problems they have, whenever Dick is feels really beat … he finds Bruce's presence very comforting.  
  
"Hey, thanks for letting all my blinds down for me," he quips lazily, tossing his keys into the bowl next to the door. "That's very thoughtful of you."  
  
Bruce doesn't respond, he just stands there with the narrow, icy cold slits in his mask glowing in Dick's direction. But he's not too bothered by it. It's not as if they hadn't had  _tons_  of conversations that had started out this way.  
  
Dick casts another look at him before he starts rummaging for the milk in his mini-fridge. "New suit? I like it. But you didn't have to dress up all fancy to come here. I'm not … I'm not even that mad anymore."  
  
He peels open the milk carton, takes a sip. "Look. I think you're right, okay? The kid could use our help. But. I was thinking …" He lowers his head, bites his lip. He's not quite ready to disclose to Bruce what had happened between him and Robin tonight, but he has to at least voice his concern. "Y'know, I was thinking, maybe it's not for the best if he hangs around us all the time. You  _or_  me. Maybe we should bring in someone more … neutral. You should ask Leslie, she's really good with this stuff …"  
  
Still no word from the man. He's standing there like molded out of the shadows. Dick can barely make out his firm, pronounced chin and the stern hard mouth. It doesn't occur to him to turn the light switch. He's – they're both too used to moving in the dark, it seems natural. And Dick is used to Bruce acting like a malfunctioning robot in conversational situations, too - but it's getting a little weird now. Perhaps Bruce is still mortified from that awkward spectacle back at the cave, perhaps he's still working through his guilt over taking Robin, or he's attempting to reassert himself by being extra-broody, who knows, but Dick doesn't want to play.   
  
He gives him that sourly smile again, like earlier in the Batcave. "Hey, as much as I like the sound of my own voice, you clearly swooped in here to say something. Feel free to jump in anytime – "  
  
That's when Batman opens his mouth, and all the hairs on Dick's neck and arms stand up.  
  
An ice-cold chill runs down his spine when realizes  
  
 _I should've known  
  
I should've KNOWN_  
  
for the second time tonight, that just because people look the same, they're sometimes not  _the same_.  
  
Batman only says two words. His voice is rough and cruel and gentle.  
  
"Sleep now."  
  
A small capsule rolls across the floor, bumps into Dick's feet, and opens with a hiss.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce gets back to the Manor in time to shed the cape, step into his evening robes and then into his study before Robin returns. He chooses a book about the theory of parallel universes from his library – not to cover his tracks, but because he hopes he'll actually have the mind to review, that he might find something. But as soon as he sits down, he knows he's been fooling himself. The lines are blurring in front of his eyes and his brain is misfiring in so many directions he might as well be staring at a blank page. He's glad he'd sent Damian home before Nightwing and Robin had started to talk; there'd been so much the boy hadn't needed to witness. So much Bruce isn't sure  _he'd_  wanted to witness.  
  
Too much. Tonight. It's been too much.  
  
Robin is as light-footed as a cat, but Bruce senses him in the hallway before he even turns the doorknob. He braces himself when he hears it softly close, and looks up, forcing his face to take on a neutral appearance.  
  
"How was it?" He asks.  
  
Robin is leaning against the door. "Don't act like you don't know."  
  
He's still in uniform, but he's taken off the domino so Bruce can see the look in his eyes. He's smiling. He has expectations. Bruce feels sweat forming underneath his hairline. "Alfred prepared a room for you. He's already gone to bed, but I'll show you."  
  
The boy lets his head sink against the door. "You've sent  _Alfred_  to bed," he purrs. "You never do that. The old man goes to sleep whenever he wants to, and you never tell him otherwise. Unless you really _need_  him not to see or hear."  
  
He pauses, then flashes him a grin, examining him. "I like what you're wearin'. It's cute."  
  
"Robin."  
  
The boy's eyes narrow. "You can call me Dick. We're alone, Bruce."  
  
Bruce wishes he would've found time to meditate before Dick came home, to soothe his blood. There's something bluntly possessive in the way the boy calls him by his name, something that makes his cock hard and his senses catch fire. But he won't heed it, he won't become a slave to it. However, it seems prudent to not get up from his chair right now.  
  
"Robin- Dick, we've discussed this," he says earnestly when he sees him coming closer. "I told you, that's  _not_  why I brought you here. It won't happen again."  
  
Young Dick seems a little wary of approaching his desk – they're in Bruce's world now, his territory – but then he skips the rest of the way when he realizes he's allowed to. The older man's words seem to barely register with him. His cheeks turn an eager red.  
  
"Did you see?" He asks breathlessly, standing in front of his desk like an excited honor student, bouncing on his heels. "Did you see us? You were there, weren't you, I knew you'd come. Did you see what I _did_?"  
  
Bruce presses his fingertips together, and gives him that hard look he's reserved for out-of-line Robins. "I saw," he says disapprovingly.  
  
In fact, he still sees it whenever he closes his eyes. And Nightwing's voice making all these confessions is still ringing in his ears, coursing through his bloodstream. He would take so much medication tonight to make it go away.  
  
Dick's smile is slipping a little, but Bruce can see him shiver at his stern voice. "Didya like it?" He inquires nervously. "I did it 'cause I knew you'd see it. Thought you might like it."  
  
Bruce feels a sad, solemn sting of protectiveness toward Nightwing, who doesn't need it, doesn't want his protection anymore. Still, seeing Robin wrap him around his finger –  
  
"It was stupid," he growls at him. "And it was disrespectful."  
  
Dick weighs his head. "Yah,  _he_  didn't like it at all," he recounts, curling his upper lip. "I do feel bad about that. I would've done more if he'd let me."  
  
Bruce tries not to massage his temples. He's exhausted, and his half-hard cock is pressing up against the soft material of his sleepwear, and feels better than it should. "Get some sleep, Robin," is all he says, a weak offering.  
  
"Not tired."  
  
That's a lie. He's beyond tired, he's manic and sleep-deprived, his eyes are large and rimmed red and his olive skin is pallid, and yet there's this excess energy humming through him that keeps him going. Earlier, Bruce has given him something he'd craved, and now he's gone crazy with greed.  
  
Bruce knows that, because deep down, he feels the same way.  
  
"Did you hear him say he  _loooved_  you?" Dick teases him, blushing even harder. "Bet you liked  _that_  part, huh."  
  
"That's." Bruce clears his throat. "That's not what he said."  
  
Which is a stupid thing to point out. Bruce isn't sure why he's even arguing this with him, when he could simply tell him to be quiet, and Robin would obey. Though admittedly, He doesn't look too obedient as he slowly walks around the desk, towards him.  
  
"Do you like him better than me…?" There's something in his voice that Bruce doesn't like, something downright venomous, "'course you do, 'cause he's your  _big boy_. And he's so great, right? Such a _success_."  
  
"Robin," Bruce snaps again, but he sounds like he's begging. Dick is standing between his legs, pressing one knee forward against the bulge in his pants, and he flinches because it feels so welcome.  
  
"Do you love him," the boy demands to know, glaring down at him. The way he says that word sounds hollow, as if he himself doesn't know what it means, but it's clear that he violently hates the idea of Bruce loving someone, even his own grown-up self.  
  
Bruce stares up at him. The answer is so clear. Yes, he loves him. He desperately loves him, always has. He loves him so much he pushes him away constantly, because he's frightened to death to set whatever is left of their fragile, peculiar friendship on fire. At first, it had been Dick's youth that had made him recoil from the idea, and later, as they got older, it had been the dawning realization that Batman, Bruce, was incapable of maintaining a long-term relationship. He'd failed at it often enough to know; and failing Dick isn't something he's willing to do. Except, of course, he's doing exactly that right now, by making a travesty of their friendship, by -   
  
His fingers squeeze the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turn white. He can't bring himself to say it out loud, not even to Robin, who's already seen the worst of him. He can't admit it to anybody except himself, especially not now, when it's all slowly withering away.  
  
So he says the only thing he can imagine to say about it. "It doesn't matter."  
  
"Mhm." Robin still glares at him, not satisfied. Bruce sees him try to figure out what that means. He's not good at reading emotions, probably because his own have gone neglected for so long. Which is another of a million reasons not to –   
  
"Well, he's not here, I am," he finally says, petulantly, and crawls into his lap to sit on his cock as if he owns it.  
  
Bruce bites back a moan so hard he feels blood run down his throat. He's squirming, but not even the most naïve person on earth could mistake it for discomfort. Dick throws his arms around him, and Bruce feels him shiver as he squeezes himself to his chest. All he'd have to do is put him down. Gently, but firmly. He's light; it's easy.  
  
Dick pulls himself up and kisses him on the nose, and it's sweet, it's comforting. Bruce closes his eyes and groans.  
  
It's not easy.  
  
He tries to keep his hips still, but it's getting more unbearable with every moment. His cock is pounding with blood and his nipples ache under the boy's inquiring fingers. He's made a promise to himself not to do this, and these are the promises he usually keeps, but his mind is already running away in the other direction. Their first time has been crude, rushed. He hasn't even experienced being inside him, which is something he still yearns for. Dick's body is hungering for it, trembling against him like a high-strung instrument, waiting for him to take his pleasure. Bruce can't stop thinking about all the amazing sexual techniques he has learned over the years; because he's studied this subject ferociously, like so many others. He thinks of the edging, the hours-long arousal, the artful bondage techniques he's picked up in Tokyo, the tantric sex, the kama sutra, the incredible, acrobatic positions that only the high-ranking courtesans of Bialya knew how to do … the pleasures he could make him experience, the climaxes he could give him, the things he could teach his body, if only he could, he could, this  _one_  time, this one last time …  
  
"You can't even  _pretend_  you don't wanna, can you," Dick triumphs, but even he sounds a little nervous now, a little intimidated by the heat that Bruce's body exudes, the size and rigidness of the cock between his legs.   
  
It's that little, vulnerable hitch in his voice that Bruce responds to. He refrains from kissing him – even though he starts to realize, with sobering clarity, that it's going to happen – but he cups his face. Dick stirs, presses his forehead against Bruce's, and there's that scary symmetry, that mutual  _want_  again. Bruce knows that he wants to hear it again, hear  _him_  again,  _Yes Sir, Please Sir_ , like music to his ears. And he knows that, if he'd tell him to beg him to  _Please fuck me, Sir_ , he would say it, and he would  _enjoy_  it.  
  
"Bruce," Dick whines, rubbing his face on him, "Do it with me. I still want it. So what if it's bad. So what if it hurts. I want it. Please?", like he can read his  _mind_ , and Bruce seizes him, seizes his mouth, and lets darkness pull him in.

\-----  
  
Dick is panting hard, back pressed against his apartment's wall, his shirt torn open down to his waist. He'd changed into his civilian clothes before he'd gone home. It had been sheer luck that he'd still had his breathing mask on hand when Batman made his move, and that he'd managed to stick it on his face in a split second. But if there was one maneuver that Bruce had drilled into him to perfection, it had been this one.  
  
Batman – the  _other_  Batman, the  _strange_  Batman – is equally out of breath, lurking at the opposite wall, wearing a much cruder, more spartanic version of a breathing mask on his face. Dick can see him grinning underneath it, blood covering his teeth and chin. There's milk still dripping from the pointy ears of his cowl where Dick has hit him with the carton. It seems as if every piece of furniture in Dick's place lies in ruin, half of them having been utilized as a weapon. Brutally. Brutally. It's brutal.   
  
They're both pretty badly banged up at this point. But it's clear that this won't be over until one of them has hammered the other one into the ground.  
  
Dick has fought Batman before; but never, ever, has he fought a Batman that wasn't older than him … or one that fought this cruelly. Bruce was ruthlessly efficient, he was precise and merciless, he'd snap bones and break teeth and tear tendons in an effort to bring it all to a swift end. But this one … this one, he really  _loves_  it, and he goes after the points that hurt with a ferocious appetite that Dick has never known from Bruce. He's young, at his physical peak, fast and lethal, and he has a bottomless arsenal of knives, batarangs, throwing darts and smoke-bombs that seems flat-out  _ridiculous_. Dick's walls are riddled with holes; he's not gonna get that deposit back.  
  
He hears a raspy chuckle, and then Batman opens his mean mouth for the second time since he got here. "I gotta hand it to you, Dickster," he says, "You really went and  _made_  something of yourself."  
  
Dick snorts, sending more blood gushing from his nose. He wags a finger in his direction. "It's … 's too late for flattery, pal."  
  
Batman snickers at that. Dick sees his gloved hand move, and throws himself to the side. A second later, the grapple hook penetrates the wall right where his sternum had been. Batman snarls in disappointment.  
  
Dick eyes the hefty metal claw trembling in his wall. "You don't … don't have a no-killing rule, do you," he mumbles.  
  
"Ever heard of a great General who's got a no-killing rule," Batman sneers, as if that was absurd, then reels his death device back in.  
  
Dick can tell that he's surprised by him, has been from the start. It's obvious that he's arrogant, that he thought it'd be easier. He hasn't been prepared for Dick to be as good as he is, for him to put up such a fight. It throws him. Confuses him. Probably because the version of him that he knows is only sixteen years old and completely at his mercy.  
  
That thought riles Dick up again, and he dives for him, ready to plant both his feet in his face. But Batman sees it coming, he slinks away at the last minute, and then Dick feels something hook-like slice through his back and smells the stench of his own blood. It's not enough to finish him, but enough to make him howl in pain.  
  
"Look, it's nothing personal, all right," Batman tells him, as Dick rolls away before he can stomp on his face, "But you lot took something that belongs to me. I want it  _back_."  
  
Dick bares his teeth, partly from pain, partly from annoyance. How he wishes that every Batman everywhere would stop talking about Robin like he's an item that's been displaced. He really  _hates_  that. He leaps to his feet. "You want the boy, you'll have to deal with me," he announces.  
  
"Sure thing, junior, knock yourself out," Batman says generously, and Dick realizes that he's never stopped having fun, or stopped grinning, since they started. "You're bleeding from  _all_  the right places. All  _I_ have to do is not get hit when you keel over in a couple minutes." He tilts his pointy-eared head. "I'm thinking in three."  
  
Dick knows he's right. He's already starting to feel woozy. Batman hasn't managed to land an actual blow on him, but he'd treated him to a multitude of little cuts that are draining him of blood; that had been pretty sly. Batman is bleeding too, but not nearly as badly. Dick needs a plan.  
  
"… _junior_?" he repeats, seeking refuge in smartassery. "Dude. I think I'm older than you."  
  
Batman finally stops smirking, and scowls instead. "Bullshit," he declares, which would almost make Dick cackle if he wasn't bleeding out. And then he can see him actually trying to do the math in his head. Losing his seniority over Dick Grayson seems to really bother him something fierce. Makes him seem kinda lame and insecure. However, Dick is still gonna pass out in a few, so he'll have to focus on that now.  
  
"Maybe I should call  _you_  junior, you scamp," he teases him, dancing out of his reach, "But aw, don't let it get you down, kiddo. You'll be really good at this someday."  
  
"You little – You –"  
  
It clearly harshes Batman's buzz that he can't really call him "little" anymore. But then, Dick gets a stumble in his step for the first time, and that picks his mood right up again. He watches Dick struggling to stay afloat like entertainment, like he's a sedate animal scrambling around in its cage, and Dick suddenly realizes that Batman had  _no_  reason to come after him tonight. He knows that Bruce has Robin. He knows where the Manor is. He knows where the Batcave is, and presumably knows how to access it. He doesn't need Dick for that. He only assaulted him because he could. Because he wanted to. Because it's  _fun_  for him.  
  
"Wha-," he mumbles. "What d'you want with me…?"  
  
"Your boss took something of mine," Batman tells him casually, and Dick sees him double for a moment, which is due to the blood loss but seems fitting, "So I'm taking something of his. Makes sense, huh?"  
  
Dick lets out a faint laugh, grabbing a side table for support. "You should … should really stop talking about people like they're things, really, it's really rude," he mutters, slurring his words. Batman seems to snap in and out of focus as Dick watches him move in for the kill.  
  
"Don't fight it," Dick hears him growl, almost softly, and then he spots something in his hand, something sharp and steely and painful. "Be a good boy and give in, and I won't hurt you anymore."  
  
"That's nice," Dick whispers, then he flinches when he feels a gloved hand grab him by the neck. Batman smells like leather and blood and gasoline. His touch is measured, not harsh, not hurtful. Dick sags in his arms, and Batman keeps holding him, as if he doesn't actually want him to fall to the floor. He's close now, really close, Dick can see how very young he looks beneath the cowl, and he, and he –  
  
He fell for it. Dick can't believe he fell for it.  
  
"By the way," he says, while he grabs the broken, sparking lamp from underneath the side table and smashes it into his head, giving him a face full of electricity, " _This_  is personal."


	6. Chapter 6

What Dick does next is probably the worst move of his entire career.  
  
He strings Batman up nice and tight (and with some glee, admittedly), which, so far so good. He uses a special Tibetan knot that Bruce has taught him, one that he himself hadn't picked up until he was older. This Batman doesn't seem like he'd been to Tibet. Dick wonders if he'd ever go to Tibet. He seems like the type to get kicked out of every monastery.  
  
He patches himself up next. He's played up his injuries to fool Batman – a trick that  _Bruce_  would have never fallen for – but he's clearly still in a pretty bad way. If Batman had been an inch more experienced, and a little less of an arrogant windbag, he would've ended Dick, and Dick knows it.  
  
Anyway, he still does the chivalrous thing and slathers Batman's face in burn ointment because, unlike him, Dick is not a total jerk.  
  
And that's when the really bad decisions start.  
  
Batman's out cold for the moment, but he's clearly still dangerous. Dick knows he should signal the Manor, tell Bruce to come immediately, and rest until he gets there. Or he should at least call for some backup –Tim, Steph or Helena would undoubtedly get a real kick out of Mean Batman. These are all smart things he could do. But in his current state, he doesn't do either of them.  
  
Perhaps it's the levels of adrenaline he's operating on. Perhaps it's the wicked triumph he feels over having bested the man who'd tormented Robin. Perhaps it's a desire to show Bruce the dangerous catch he's made, and show him right away. Whatever it is, it makes him step back into his Nightwing suit (wincing in pain), drag the passed-out Bat to his car (making sure to bump him into every obstacle along the way), toss him into the trunk, and race down to the Manor.  
  
Coming through the front door with a tied-up, pissed off Dark Knight seems like a bad idea, so he takes the secret passageway to the Batcave. Despite him and Bruce being on the rocks, he still has his clearance, so it works out.  
  
He pulls in the car. When he gets out, he finds the cave dark and deserted, which isn't what he'd expected. Looks like he'll have to wake Bruce up, after all. But he wagers it'll be worth it.  
  
Batman tries to head-butt him right out of the trunk, but he'd definitely expected  _that_.  
  
"You took my stuff," He mopes at him when it doesn't work. "You're all a pack of  _thieves_."  
  
True, Dick has removed his utility belt and at least a dozen more gadgets, weapons, and blades from him while he'd been passed out. That Chinese finger trap he carried around for whatever reason had nearly snapped his pinky off. Dick doesn't even want to know what he's been doing with that.  
  
"You'll be lucky to leave with a few of your  _teeth_  when Batman gets a hold of you," he tells him cooly, dragging him to his bound feet.  
  
His captive spits, some blood still mixed in with the saliva. " _I'm_  the goddamn Batman," he declares.  
  
Dick kinda wants to zap him with his escrima stick just for that. But his mentor has taught him not to abuse culprits when they're already detained, so he merely rolls his eyes.  
  
Meanwhile, Young Bruce examines the dormant Batcave. "He's in  _bed_?" He complains. "Man, what is he,  _80_?!"  
  
"Why do I feel like you'll eat those words," Dick quips, prodding him forward. "Enough talk. Let's boogie."  
  
Batman eyes the stairs leading up to the living quarters, and grunts. "You don't expect me to  _hobble_  all the way up there, do you, Ancient Wonder?" He growls. "When d'you plan on arriving, next week?"  
  
"Aw, don't sell yourself short, I'm sure you'll do great," Dick says merrily, dragging him along by his bulky shoulder. Batman makes a sound at that like a discontented third-grader, which would be amusing if the whole situation wasn't so grim.  
  
"So eager to deliver me to your Lord and Master, huh," Batman says after a while, licking his busted lips. His cowl is torn and he has some nasty electrical burns on one side of his face, but he's grinning, anyway. "You should tuck your tail away, I think it's wagging in my face."  
  
Dick feels an unwelcome rush of blood in his cheeks. He tries to tell himself that Batman is messing with him. What he's doing is, he's turning in a dangerous fugitive, and that's a good thing. And perhaps Robin would be relieved to see him detained, too. It could make up for the awkward way they'd parted earlier. It's not all about Bruce. Really, it's not.  
  
He pulls out an escrima stick. "Oh, one more thing. You try anything funny, and I'll zap you again. Actually,  _please_  try something funny, 'cause I really wanna zap you again."  
  
"I'll feed you your own balls for this," Batman announces, but then he starts hopping along. Even under the circumstances, it's one of the greatest things Dick has ever seen; he'll carry that sight in his heart forever. Batman is a surprisingly compliant captive, but Dick knows why. It's because despite his attitude, he's not entirely stupid. He knows he has lost, for now. But he's undoubtedly preserving his energy, waiting for the right moment to strike. Batman never quits, and this one is definitely no exception. But, well, Dick would make sure that moment never arrives.  
  
"At least  _Alfred_  doesn't slack off," Batman mutters under his breath, as he sees the Manor's impeccable condition when they reach the upstairs.  
  
Wayne Manor is riddled with motion alerts, but Dick knows how to avoid them; the last thing they need is Damian leaping out at them with a huge katana. Though it'd almost be worth it for the look on Batman's face, Dick's priority is to get Bruce informed. He'd actually love to prop Mean Batman up against the wall like a surfboard while he goes to knock on his former mentor's bedroom door, but he doesn't dare leave him out of his sights even for a second. Not him. So, more steps it is –  
  
Batman clicks his tongue at him. "Hey, skippy. Over there."  
  
He tilts his head in the direction of the study, and then Dick sees it. There's light flooding out from underneath the door. Batman seems less worried about meeting his older counterpart than offended that Dick has missed that obvious clue.  
  
"Pay attention," he scolds him quietly.  
  
Oh; that makes it easier, then. "Come," Dick mutters, as if Batman is his pet, then drags him with him, anyway.  
  
They close in on the study, and the closer they get, the more it becomes obvious that something's going on in there, and it's not quiet reading. The sounds coming from behind the heavy door are muffled, incomprehensible. Dick hears something that sounds like … rattling, and then a high, faint  _humming_  noise that gives him a strange sensation in his belly, but that he can't place. It sounds almost like a haunting. Next to him, Batman is tensing, too.  
  
Dick frowns. He knows that Bruce plans to try world-breaching again, but … but he's not already experimenting, is he? On the other hand, it'd be quite like him to –  
  
The door isn't even locked.  
  
In hindsight, it is insane that the door isn't even locked.  
  
Dick opens it, and steps right into the deep end, into pandemonium. What he sees very nearly makes his mind explode.  
  
He sees Robin, bent over Bruce's desk, legs spread so wide that he's standing on his toes, vest torn halfway down his shoulders. He's the one producing that high-pitched, keeling wail. Bruce has his eyes closed like he's in a trance, clutching the boy's face with a vice-like, bruising hand, sucking on the flushed skin between his neck and shoulder while he thrusts into him, deep, hungry thrusts that shake the entire table to the point that its contents are mostly on the floor. And then, Dick stumbles inside, not feeling the ground beneath his feet, and it stops, it all stops dead.  
  
He doesn't even know what the look on Bruce's face is like when he notices him, because something inside him snaps, and all he sees when he looks at him is red.  
  
It's probably seconds. It feels like hours. He's not sure anymore.  
  
The next thing he sees his how Robin's eyes widen when he sets them on Batman, who's standing tied-up next to Dick. The knuckle he's been biting plops out of his mouth. "Oh," he breathes, "Oh  _shit_ ," and he sounds  _thrilled_ , and he's leering, and Dick dizzily realizes that he  _loves_  that this is happening. And when he looks over at Batman, he sees him smiling, too. His smile is one of triumph and smug satisfaction, and Dick doesn't even understand it, until Batman opens his mouth to speak.  
  
" _Trash_ ," is all he says, and it's clear that he means Bruce.  
  
Bruce looks like he's being gutted. No, he looks like he's already dead. His eyes are blank, his face is ashen. He looks incredibly old all of a sudden. Dick stares at him, and it's as if he watches a part of his soul actually curl up and die.   
  
Dick feels physically ill. The room is spinning, his  _world_  is spinning, but he doesn't move, nobody moves for what seems like forever, until a big, gloved hand closes around his throat, and another wave of horror washes over him.  
  
 _He's freed his_  hands  
  
"Sorry, Nightwing," Dick hears Batman growl, "You seem all right," and then two big arms twist his neck to hard that tears shoot into his eyes. In his current state, it doesn't actually hurt that much, comparably.  
  
"You move," Batman now tells Bruce, who's still standing there like a frozen corpse with his shirt hanging out of his pants, "You raise your voice, even a little, and the pretty one gets it."  
  
Dick almost wants to laugh. He's figured out the knot. Of course he's figured out the knot. He's been working his way through it while distracting Dick with his snide remarks and crappy attitude, because  _of course_  he has. He's the goddamn Batman.  
  
Batman now deigns to address his partner, but his voice is anything but friendly, and his eyes remain fixed on his target. "Thanks for the diversion."  
  
"Yeah, I wasn't doing that for you," Robin points out, tugging on his vest and leotard to make himself more presentable, "Honestly, I hoped I'd never have to see  _you_  again." He cocks an eyebrow, but it's almost as if his features are softening when he asks, "What's up with your  _face_?"  
  
Batman's lips distort with anger, and then Dick lets out a soft cry when he receives another angry yank to the neck.  
  
Hearing him seems to shock Bruce out of his stasis, at least. Dick can see the genuine terror in his eyes, but truth be told, he perceives anything the man does through a thick, sickly fog of disgust right now.  
  
"You won't kill him," Bruce says to Batman. He's so convinced of this that he sounds almost calm.   
  
"Don't test me, old man." Batman's face is so close he's almost nibbling on Dick's ear as he talks. "There's more I can do than kill him. You know damn well that if I snap it  _here_ , he'll be paralyzed for life. This one's an acrobat too, isn't he? Sure he is, I've fought him. Think he'll adjust well to being a quadriplegic? You decide."  
  
Dick groans. Bruce looks as if he's throwing up in his mouth. Even Robin seems a little disturbed.  
  
"Don't make that face, Wayne," Batman barks when Bruce gives him a deep look of hatred and disgust, "You  _started_  it!"  
  
That makes Robin perk up, despite the fact that his older self is very nearly getting his head twisted off. In fact, it seems as if Bruce and Dick have dropped off the face of the earth as far as he's concerned, and now there's only Batman. "Aw," he chirps, and Dick realizes a little too late how nuts he is, " _You came for me?!_ "  
  
"Shut up," Batman snaps at him, irritated, and Robin stops talking, but he doesn't stop grinning.

Dick can see Bruce's eyes desperately flit in his direction again. He's clearly trying to hide how upset he is, but of course that's fairly pointless if he has to hide it from himself. "Let him go," he says with curt nod at Dick, "And we'll talk."

 

His voice is grave, but he doesn't look too impressive in his post-sex rumpled state, distraught, discolored and shaken, and Batman's dismissive snort attests to that. Dick is too fed up with Bruce to appreciate that he's obviously scared for his life.

 

Batman grunts. "You got no room to talk and you know it," he drawls, "And by the way, don't even _think_ about pushing one of those buttons I know you've got under that desk. I know all about 'em. I _installed_ them. If I see your fingers twitch even _once_ -"

 

"You won't," Bruce says quickly, raising his hands in a show of compliance. He turns to Robin. "He leaves me no choice – for now – "  
  
Robin shoots him a look like he's just now remembering he's there.  
  
Batman sounds almost like he's pitying his counterpart. "You don't know what you're messing with, Wayne. You don't even know what you're dealing with, here. You're in over your head. And  _you_ ," he snaps, turning to his young apprentice again, "My feet. Cut 'em loose. Hurry up. We'll discuss this  _episode_  later."  
  
Robin's mouth hangs agape as he looks from one Bruce Wayne to the other. It's obvious that he's getting off on the attention, but it's not immediately clear what he's going to do. Dick suddenly realizes that, for all his craziness, for all his obsession, Robin is still a wild card.  
  
It's difficult to squeeze the words out of his mangled throat, but Dick does it, anyway. "Look at him. He doesn't care about you," he mumbles, speaking to the kid, though he's not even sure who he's saying this to. "He never will. Go with him, and he'll hurt you again. He'll abuse you again. Over and over." The words taste like poison in his mouth. He closes his eyes. "Trust me."  
  
After he's finished, a cold chill seems to waft through the room, somehow. It's deadly quiet, until Batman suddenly utters a flat "…what."  
  
When Dick opens his eyes again, he sees Robin staring at him with an almost comically startled look on his face. He looks like a little boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Um. Shut  _up_?" He mumbles at his doppelganger, but it's too late.  
  
Dick can feel how confused Batman is. Sadly, he's not confused enough to loosen his vice-like grip on him when he hollers, "What did you tell them I  _did_?!"  
  
"Nothing!" Robin grows even paler than Bruce is. "I told them nothin', Sir, really, I – I swear. He – " He points an accusing finger at Bruce, "He – I think he thinks you've been touching me or somethin', and I just, I just, I went with it, I'm sorry!" His voice turns whiny. " _He was so nice to me_!"  
  
"You…" Bruce's voice sounds so small. The crestfallen look on his face as he turns to the boy would almost hurt if Dick was in any state to give a crap about what he felt. "You said he'd … done something to you…"  
  
Robin is fidgeting with his hands, still looking like a kid who's getting detention.  
  
"You psychotic little shit," Batman murmurs. "Why don't you tell them the truth. Go on. Tell 'em. Tell 'em what I did, what I actually  _did_  to you."  
  
Robin's sharp little face goes from white to red. His face twists into a furious grimace. He looks at Batman as if he hates and loves him more than anything. Dick sees tears shoot into his eyes. And then it bursts out of him.  
  
"He  _fired_  me!"  
  
His lip starts wibbling. He stomps his foot like the petulant child he is. "He  _fired_  me, after all the work I did, after all I did for him, he goes and throws me out like  _garbage_!"   
  
"That's right." Dick feels Batman's sardonic smile against his cheek. "And, honey,  _that_  I would do over and over again."  
  
Robin pokes a finger at Dick next, still whining at his former boss. " _He_  got  _shot_ , you know?! He got himself shot, I would  _never_  do that, and you fired me, anyway!"  
  
"For incompetence. For cowardice." Batman hesitates. "And for acting like a fucking  _brat_  when I wouldn't return your  _advances_."  
  
The boy's face grows an even deeper shade of red. "Oh, you  _wanted_  to," he spits, lower lip trembling with hate, "Don't gimme that, you wanted me, you  _always_  wanted me, from the minute you took me, but you didn't have the  _guts_."  
  
He abruptly turns to Bruce again, and his mask of anger turns into tenderness and pride for a few insane seconds. "He's not the man  _you_  are," he gushes at him.   
  
Bruce doesn't look as if he could possibly feel any worse about himself than he already does.  
  
"Yeah, sorry, gramps," Batman taunts him, anyway. "But the only one in this room who's fucked a teenage boy is you."  
  
"Leave us," Bruce says in that broken, hollow voice, eyes closed. "Release Nightwing. He's done nothing to you. He's had no part in this. Please."  
  
Batman is visibly disgusted at hearing his older self plead with someone, even if it's him. It barely makes a difference, however, since he seems disgusted with Bruce, anyway. "Not yet," he says mercilessly. He's holding Dick so tightly even the smallest movement would result in him snapping his neck, not giving him or Bruce any chance to act. "There's more."  
  
He nods at Robin, who's still pouting at him. "Own up," he prompts him. "Tell 'em the rest. You owe him that. He was so  _nice_  to you."  
  
The teenager turns very meek all of a sudden. "P-please don't?" He whimpers. "You'll ruin it, please don't make me tell him, I'll cut you free, I'll go with you, but don't make me say it –"  
  
"Do it."  
  
"Aw man..." Robin shoots Bruce a timid look, lip quivering, eyes fluttering. He talks very softly, in a way that suggests an intimacy between them that would turn Dick's stomach, if he wasn't already busy with having his neck twisted.  
  
"Y'know, that room? Where we met?" Robin pipes, almost shyly. "I … I made that."  
  
"You made it," Bruce repeats. He sounds too drained to inflect his voice with any type of emotion. But the look he gives him is gentle and sad. Whatever happened with them in that room, it has affected him.  
  
Batman picks up the story when Robin simply hangs his head, tears streaking down his face, and doesn't go on.  
  
"After I kicked his sorry ass out, I realized he'd do  _anything_  to get back at me," he sneers. "Or get back  _to_  me, I don't know. He seemed obsessed. He tried to get in with some scientist who could modify his body, make it faster and stronger, and when  _those_  guys wouldn't play along, he shacked up with some pretty unsavory, uh,  _wizard_  types." Batman scrunches up his nose at that last part.  
  
"Occultists, they were  _occultists_ , okay," Robin corrects him. It seems like he still doesn't want to talk about it, but he doesn't want Batman to get it all wrong, either. "And they were really good, like. They taught me that I could  _create_  places with my mind, if I focused hard enough, and said the right incantations. Like  _real_  ones, not that sideshow crap at all. I was lonely, and I had no place to be, so I. I created home. _Our home_."  
  
He looks at Batman with those large, pleading eyes. If that inspires any emotions in the man, he doesn't let it show. Robin swallows some tears, and continues.  
  
"And then, I … I thought, well, if I could use my willpower to create places, maybe I could also use it to … to make people do what I want. So every night, I concentrated really, really hard on …" He blushes, very sweetly this time. "On  _calling_  him to me. And then one night, it seemed to work." He shoots Bruce another covert look. "But it was you, you came instead. That was an accident, I'm sorry!"  
  
Bruce nods. His voice is a whisper, his tone wistful. "We both wanted –" He starts, then casts a fleeting look at Dick, and says no more.  
  
"I-I tried to act all normal when you came in, because I wasn't sure what was happening and I didn't wanna rock the boat, but then you started, you started to, um …"  
  
He looks at his boots again. "You were so nice to me," he repeats.  
  
For a moment that seems somehow equal parts sickening and sweet, it looks as if Bruce and Robin are going to touch hands, but then Batman's voice cuts the air like a cracking whip.  
  
"Enough. I'm ending this. Get over here, mumbles."  
  
The teenager casts one last look at Bruce, mouths, "I'm sorry," then scurries over to Batman,  _his_  Batman. Of course he does, Dick thinks, because when it comes down to it, it'll always be Batman and Robin, every time. He sees him grab the letter opener that's dropped to the floor, and then he's kneeling in front of Batman, cutting the lines around his boots in a show of obedience. Batman grunts in approval.  
  
"Good for  _something_ , for once," he grumbles. Then he takes one last look at Bruce, as well. "You make me sick, old man," he informs him. "You're not fit to wear our cowl. I'd say I'll ruin your life for this, but it seems you already did that. Bye."  
  
And with that, he tosses Dick aside like a used napkin, grabbing Robin instead.  
  
"I'm so sorry, for real," Robin chirps at him, before a strong arm drags him away.  
  
As they scram, Bruce's first thought, weirdly enough, isn't pursuit. His first thought is his former partner. Still stumbling from the force of Batman's push, Dick sees him hurry towards him, arms stretched out for support.  
  
"Dick." He sounds anxious, voice trembling. "Dick, are y-"  
  
A surge of angry energy explodes in Dick's body. He shoots up, and sucker punches Bruce so hard that he drops to his knees.  
  
Normally, it wouldn't be possible to fell Bruce with a blow like that; or at all. But he doesn't try to dodge, doesn't try to stop him, doesn't fight back, probably because he knows somewhere in his heart that he deserves it.  
  
Dick wipes his mouth, bile rising in his throat. "Don't touch me."  
  
Bruce stays on his knees, a slumped figure at Dick's feet. He's still as white as a sheet, but now bright red blood is pooling out of his nose, slowly trailing over his mouth, which is also bleeding. But he doesn't seem to feel the pain. He looks as broken and shell-shocked as Dick has ever seen him, but perhaps for the first time in his life, he feels not a kernel of sympathy for him.   
  
"Dick. I'm s-"  
  
"No."  
  
Dick barely recognizes his own voice. His legs are shaking, and all he wants to do is curl up somewhere and cry like a child, he feels so betrayed. But there's no way in hell he's going to cry in front of him, so he starts screaming, instead. He doesn't care anymore who'll hear it.  
  
"How could you?! That kid is what, sixteen?!" He shouts at him, and he can actually see Bruce flinch at that, " _Of course_  he's devoted to you,  _of course_  he'd do whatever you want him to. He looks up to you, idolizes you, he loves you. He'd do  _anything_  for you. And  _that_  is what you choose to do.  _That_."  
  
Bruce lets the tirade wash over him, staring up at Dick with dead, sunken eyes. But right at the end, something flashes in them, something sly and hideous. He licks his blood-stained lips. "Are we still talking about  _him_ ," he mutters, and suddenly, Dick knows, he knows that Bruce has followed them like the creep he is, and he'd heard him say how he once loved him, and now he's throwing it back in his face. Even at his lowest, his instinct to cruelly deflect is still intact, like a shield.  
  
Dick lets out a roar, grabs the letter opener that Robin has dropped after freeing Batman, and fires it right between Bruce's legs. It gets stuck in the floorboard between his knees, vibrating. If he'd wanted to impale his balls, he could've.  
  
He feels poison collect on his lips. He's never said something like this to him before. He never thought he would.   
  
"You piece of shit."  
  
When Bruce's eyes fall shut, it's like the lid of a coffin closing. He says nothing in his defense. Dick's vision is blurring. He can't breathe. It slowly occurs to him that he's still wounded, too, cut to bits by the _other_  Batman. It seems hard to even stay on his feet –  
  
That's when the alarm starts sounding, saving them from having to look at each other. And somehow, they both immediately know what the other two did.  
  
"Ah." Bruce still sounds affectless, dead. "They – "  
  
"- set the Batcave on fire. I know," Dick finishes, rubbing his face. Hell is not over. He wants to be miles away from Bruce, but he's not gonna let down Damian and Alfred. "Let's go."


	7. Chapter 7

The day is breaking over Gotham, but you'd barely know it. A thick, dark front of clouds is forming over the city. The air in their cheap motel room is hot and damp. Robin is curled up on the bed, nibbling on his fingernails as he watches Batman set up the video camera. 

"Why's it have to be video," he wonders, mainly because he wants to say something to him. "There's digital now."

He doesn't even expect the tall man to answer, but he does. "'cause it has to be authentic, you floozy," growls Bruce. "Back when that other runt was your age, everything was on video. Keep up."

Dick's fingers drift from his mouth. "I knew that," he says brattily, satisfied that they're talking, and that he's calling him names again. No place like home. Even if they're not home.

Bruce catches him smiling, and Dick feels his stern, cruel eyes on him even through the blanked-out lenses. He's covered up the burns on his face with theatrical make-up for their little shoot, bad burns that he'd acquired fighting for Dick, or at least that's how Dick chooses to imagine it.

"For the record," the Dark Knight grunts. "You're still fired."

"Even after this?" Dick inquires, shifting on the bed in anticipation of what they're about to do. Bruce doesn't reply this time. Dick chuckles to cover for how nervous he is, and tugs at the collar of his vest because he's also hot. He's been thrilled out of his mind ever since they set up shop here; now he starts to feel frightened, too. Only a little, though. Most of his body is winding itself up with excitement.

After they'd torched the Batcave (Dick feels sorry about that, he really does) and confiscated the best and fastest Batmobile for their ride, Batman had gotten really really mad. Not at him, though, for a change. But at the other Bruce. Probably because he hadn't expected any better from him, Dick, but a hell of a lot better from, well, from himself. He'd called him horrible names, Dick's ears were still ringing from it, and then he'd gone on a rant about how he couldn't have that creep run around in the cape and cowl, how it was an insult to him, and how they had to make sure they destroyed him before they returned to their world. (Batman had traced Dick's steps and recreated his little mind experiment with no trouble; he knew how to get in and out.) At the same time, Batman didn't deem Bruce worthy of an honest fight; what he wanted was to humiliate him, expose him for what he was.

And that was when The Idea happened.

Dick is rocking back and forth on the bed, forcing himself to take deep, steady breaths and not hug his knees because he's not sure how to act. It's a typical Batman idea. An instant classic. It's this year's yellow-painted room. Batman always comes up with stuff like this, stuff that's completely bonkers, yet bizarrely effective.

A sex tape.

They're gonna make a sex tape.

They might not be exactly the same as their counterparts, but they look the same. They have the same faces, same voices, same body types, even the same sets of finger prints. And Batman is going to take full advantage of this fact, and Dick, formerly Robin, is going to assist him, because this is all his fault.

The Idea is, they're going to shoot a once-in-a-lifetime, hot scoop video of Batman and Robin fucking, make it seem dated so it looks like it's this world's Batman taking advantage of his Boy Wonder, and send it to the press before they take off. At the end of the video, they'll even remove their masks (Batman has given him a spare one), torching Batman's and Bruce Wayne's reputation in one blow, like they'd torched his lair. So even if the Batman-and-Robin portion of this fails (which they don't think it will), it'd still be a video of Bruce Wayne and his ward Dick Grayson engaging in some illicit costumed hanky-panky.

And they … they weren't gonna fake it or anything. They'd actually gonna do it, like, right here, on camera. Because Batman insists that it has to be 'authentic'.

That's what he's doing it for, of course, for the authenticity. For no other reason. 

Sure.

Dick can go with that.

In his heart, he knows it's wrong. He doesn't really wanna destroy the other two. Bruce has been so good to him, and he's given him the happiest hours of his miserable teenage life. And Nightwing has shown him kindness, even though Dick resents him a little bit, because he's bigger and better and so cool, and because Bruce loooves him, no matter what he says. 

But … when it comes down to it, he still wants to be with this one. He's the one, he's the one who'd been there the night he'd lost his parents, who'd pulled him out of his nightmare and into a fever dream filled with thrill and excitement. The one whose approval he'd always strived for, the one he'd think of when he'd bite his pillow late at night. He's the prize. His eyes glaze over with greed as he watches the older man. He's never been this close to it. Who woulda known that all it would take was a proper mission statement for him to finally pop his cherry. Dick could've spared himself a lot of timid, humiliating seduction attempts and cruel rejections if he'd known that.

And besides, what would the other Bruce even have done with him. All he'd wanted to do was 'fix' him, he'd said so, and then what? He probably would've tossed him out too, like a discarded toy. He already has a Dick Grayson, he has a Robin, too, he doesn't need him for that. But this one. This one only has him, even if he doesn't wanna admit it, and Dick wants so, so badly for him to take him back, and this might be his only shot at it. He wants to belong. And he wants him, too. He's cruel and he's mean, but Dick still wants him so much his body is practically screaming for it. Even if he won't be as sweet and gentle as the older Bruce has been, Dick still wants his large hands on him, he wants to feel his weight and taste his mouth and smell his scent, and he wants to make him lose it and see what it's like.

He's hugged him, a couple times, before he'd hated him, and it had felt really good.

Dick swallows. His body is running hot. There's also the small fact that the other Bruce had been this close to making him come when they'd gotten interrupted, and even if that had been hours ago, that little bit of sexual frustration still gnaws at him, driving him nuts. Batman's not gonna have a difficult time with him, at all.

"You'll ruin his life, too," he points out, but his voice is already hoarse with anticipation, "Nightwing's."

"Eh. That kid's done well for himself. He'll live. Besides, everyone's gonna feel sorry for him – which he'll hate, but he's not the one who'll get the blame," Batman assesses, still fucking around with the settings on the dated camera. He either wants their sex tape to look really pretty, or really grody, depending on what the hell he's doing. (They'd broken into three Wayne Industries warehouses until they'd found a box of vintage VHS ones. Since it's from Wayne's, it's not theft, in Batman's mind.) 

Dick frowns a little at the casual, but genuine respect in his voice. "D'you like him too now," he pouts.

"He was no match for me – saw what I did to him?!" Batman gloats, but then goes on, "But he's not bad. Brave. Fierce. Good soldier."

Dick feels new tears sting in his eyes. Yea well, maybe he had a better teacher than me, asshole. He sits up, glaring. His heart is rapping against his ribcage. He wants the big man to come over already so he can show him good. Even though he doesn't really feel so confident in that, either.

"Oh, right." Batman snaps his gloved fingers at him, still bent over the camera. "Once we're rolling, I'd appreciate it if you dropped in there that you're only fourteen years old. That'd be good."

Dick huffs, narrowing his eyes. He wouldn't put it past him to have forgotten. "I'm turning seventeen," he complains. "You know that, right."

Batman hisses in annoyance, but he finally lets go of the camera and swaggers over to where Robin is sitting. Dick's heart does a startled leap when a big, strong hand grabs his chin, forcing him to look up. Batman's codpiece looks gigantic from this angle. Dick's adam's apple bobs in his throat.

"I know that, sweetcheeks," Batman explains impatienly, "But the public won't. They'll lick their fingers for this. I'm assuming Vicki Vale's a thing here. She's been on my ass for years. Never could resist a good filthy scandal, that one."

He seems so caught up in his plan. He seems downright pumped for it. It seems to make perfect sense to Batman that it's disgusting and wrong for Bruce to sleep with his teen ex-partner out of lust, but it's appropriate and perfectly right for him to do it for revenge; or so the story goes. Dick wonders how much of him really wants this. The Batmobile they'd stolen had been a new model, one that was much better than the one he had at home; Batman had been envious, but Dick had also seen him get all worked up driving it, like, it had almost given him a boner. He's always been like this with fast cars. He'd looked pretty heartbroken when they had to drive it straight into the Gotham River to throw off the tracker. The idea of him being horny, even if it's not for him, makes Dick feel all antsy. In a hot-cold, good-bad way.

"Listen." He gives him a deer-in-headlights-look, mercifully hidden by his domino. Telling him this makes him wanna die, but he still thinks he should. "Me and … him. The other one. We never did it for real," he confesses. "We were just grinding. He didn't wanna do more. He was scared he'd hurt me –" His voice wavers on that last part. He pulls himself together, tries not to stammer. Batman doesn't like it when he stammers, like a stupid child. Batman's hand is still squeezing him. His mouth has curled up in distaste as soon as his other self came up. Dick's fingers sweatily dig themselves into the mattress.

"You'll still be the first," he manages, not stumbling once.

If that info has any value to Batman, he doesn't reveal it. "And?"

He gazes down at him, stone-faced, and Dick knows he doesn't even need to see his eyes to know that he's freaking, because now he's shaking in his tiny boots. His skinny knees are trembling. "You're not gonna make it hurt on purpose, right?"

"Hrm." Batman frowns at him, pondering. "It would make an even bigger splash if you look like you're in pain the whole time … I'm kidding," he says in his gruff voice when he sees the look on Dick's face.

Dick growls and punts him in his bulky thigh; only he would think that kind of thing was funny. Batman doesn't hit him back. He lets go of his chin, and pats him on the cheek with his stiff, industrial-smelling gloved hand. It's a clumsy gesture, but it's not unfriendly.

"I've done this kind of thing before," he assures him.

Dick shoots him a dirty, possessive look. "What, like, with boys?"

"No." He sounds like he's rolling his eyes under the cowl. "With women, Dick. Back there, it's pretty much all the same, don't worry about it."

He nods, squirming under the touch. It's the first nice touch he's given him since … he doesn't even know. He hungers for it. "You hate me, though," he points out, voice already turning breezy.

"I don't hate you," Batman says, and it's so throwaway that it's probably not a lie. Then, he does something surprising. He bends down to him, and their heads kinda awkwardly bump into each other at first, but then he's, he's nuzzling him. The smell of leather and testosterone fills his eager nose, combined with sharp traces of napalm. It takes his breath away and makes his eyes water in more ways than one. He feels stubble brush across his smooth skin when Batman finds his ear.

"I'm not gonna give someone pain when I'm supposed to give them pleasure, only dirtbags and amateurs do that. I know what I'm doing," he whispers. And then, as if to prove it, he breathes a kiss on his ear, nabs at it, sucks his earlobe into his mouth and starts nibbling, and it sends Dick into spasms almost at once. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He squirms and shudders on the bed, thinking that his former boss must surely be repulsed by his weakness or something, but then he feels him squeeze his hand, and it's gentle.

"If it hurts, say something," Batman purrs into his ear. His hard mouth twists into a smile. "And I mean, loudly, into the camera."

Dick roars and punches his shoulder, and Batman laughs and leans into him, and he's breathing faster now, and for a moment it's as if they're tousling on the bed or something. But the older man winds himself away from him again, and walks over to the tripod across from the bed. He probably doesn't want to waste all the good stuff in rehearsal. Dick watches him from half-lidded eyes, heart hammering in his throat. He almost thinks he can see something bulging in his trunks, but he can't be sure, with the codpiece and all.

He says one last thing before he turns on the camera. His tone makes Dick shudder again. "I'll do it better than he did. You wait."

He pushes the button, the red light starts flashing, and they're off, and they're rolling.

Dick, who's been performing ever since he could think, feels a rush of stage fright come over him. He doesn't know where to look, he doesn't know how to look. When he nervously pinches his legs together, he feels an arousal so sweet it nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs. He can't help himself; he's been sitting on this desire for too long, it's festered, and now he's sick, sick everywhere. By the time Batman returns to the bed, he's greeting him with a full-on erection. The older man makes a small noise when he sees the state he's in, but it's neither friendly nor unfriendly. Dick finds himself staring right at his trunks, and remembers how often he'd sat on the bench in their locker room, watching him and dreaming about hugging his waist and burying his face in his crotch; he wonders if his former boss would hold it against him if he did that now. But he can't even move. With some effort, he tears his eyes away from his codpiece, and looks up at his face instead.

Batman reaches down and brushes a dark lock of hair from his forehead in an almost apropos gesture. But then he rests his heavy, steady hand on Dick's shoulder, and for some reason, it makes him want to believe that they're going to be all right. 

"You look nice today," Batman says generously. "Now bend over."


	8. Chapter 8

The fire has been out for twenty minutes, and Damian still hasn't stopped apologizing.

 

"Forgive me, Father, Grayson," he titters for the twelfth time, bouncing back and forth between the two grown men who are barely looking at each other. "I can't believe I didn't hear the intrusion. I should've been there. I could've done something. I can't _believe_ myself!"

 

Bruce doesn't answer. His gaze is fixed on his screens, many of them cracked and barely functional, while he tries to get the systems back online. His lips form a thin, tense line. He's in full crisis mode, but he hasn't put on the suit and cowl. Maybe because he wants to save time … or maybe because he can't bring himself to wear it right now.

 

Damian, on the other hand, looks as if he's put on the Robin uniform half-asleep, in the dark, and it's a sight for sore eyes. Dick cracks him a weary smile. "Eh, this isn't on you, Damian," he says truthfully. "You were at the other end of the Manor. Not even Titus heard a thing."

 

 _And I'm really hella glad you_ weren't _there. That's the part me and your father can probably agree on._

 

"Arf," the large dog responds to his name. He's still visibly upset, running through the destruction in the smoldering Batcave with his ears and tail drooping. The damage looks bad, right now, but it's only surface-level. Of course Bruce has all his important files in fireproof storage, and of course his base has smoke detectors programmed to rain down extinguishing foam at the first sign of a fire.

 

However; the dinosaur's ruined.

 

Dick feels oddly depressed looking at its smoking remains. Nothing like seeing one of the happiest, goofiest reminders of his childhood go up in flames tonight, in particular.

 

"Titus, heel!" Damian calls his pet over and kneels down to rub his big head. He shoots Dick a sly, curious look. "So. There's another Batman now, too."

 

"Mm. Yeah."

 

Dick closes his eyes as every inch of his body starts hurting, like an echo of their encounter. Sitting down on this rock has been a mistake. Now that the first rush of rage and adrenaline is seeping out of his body, he feels more than ever like a drooping structure ready to collapse. At least he doesn't have to hide from Damian how he feels; his run-in with Mean Batman and the fire are explanation enough for Dick to look half-dead; the kid doesn't have to know the rest.

 

"I see. Was he  –" Damian pauses, and Dick sees his mind racing as he wonders what to ask first. The idea of having two of his father running around is probably really exciting. Especially, Dick thinks with a bitter flavor in his mouth, for a boy who admires his father as much as Damian does.

 

"Was he _competent_?" Damian finally settles on, which is a very Damian-like thing to ask.

 

Dick can't help snorting out a laugh. "Well. He got _me_ good, that's for sure."

 

Damian's face falls. He'd never liked seeing Dick hurt, and Dick knows it. "Yes. That's regrettable."

 

Dick shakes his head. Damian is the last person he wants to feel bad about this mess. "You know," he says, stretching out his sore legs and wincing, "I frisked him _twice_ after I knocked him out. I can't fathom where _on earth_ he produced all that _napalm_ from."

 

"Well, I'm sure you gave it your best, Grayson, even if you ultimately failed," Damian says solemnly, which is actually a really sweet thing to say if you're Damian.

 

Dick blinks at him. There's something comforting about looking at his serious, soot-covered face and seeing the concern on it. It's an honest and uncomplicated response, and in Dick's current state, it nearly makes him cry.

 

" _You're_ getting really good at dealing with large fires, though," he says, trying to mask the crack in his voice. "That's two in 24 hours. Not bad."

 

Damian's 'R'-adorned chest swells at that, and Dick watches him try, and predictably fail, at seeming humble. "Well, it's no big deal, obviously, but I suppose you could say that," he says extra casually, tugging on his earlobe.

 

"I'm just glad nothing happened to you," Dick mumbles. He feels woozy and weak-kneed, his chin is trembling and his eyes are burning. He reaches out and pulls Damian into a hug, partly because he's glad to know that at least _this_ Robin will be okay, and partly because he really, really needs a hug.

 

He hears Damian grumble a puzzled "Grayson …?" against his shoulder, like pretty much always when this happens, but then he feels his arms close around him and squeeze him tight.

 

Of course Bruce chooses that moment to come over with heavy footsteps. Dick senses him standing there, hesitating, as if he isn't sure if how to interrupt the moment. But then he starts talking over it, anyway, his voice somber but businesslike.

 

"We shouldn't be down here while the smoke clears. We can clean this mess up in a few hours. Let's reconvene upstairs. The kitchen, where the blinds are down."

 

"Oh thank heavens," Alfred mutters from the far end of the cave, dropping the crispy burnt dinosaur's tail he's been lifting, and dusting off his hands. "Right this instant, Sir. I'll prepare refreshments. I think we could all use some."

 

Damian perks up with curiosity at his father's words, but somehow, he seems to sense that his former partner is still in need of hugging, since he doesn't let go of him. Which Dick appreciates. "What's the course of action?" The boy demands to know, excitedly. "Did that other Batman really kidnap Robin? We're getting him back, right?"

 

He sounds very determined. Damian hasn't quite warmed up to Robin, but that doesn't mean he's down with people getting snatched from his home.

 

When Bruce doesn't offer a response, Dick licks his cracked lips. "It's complicated," he tells Damian. The kid frowns, arms still wrapped neatly around him. "But –"

 

"Upstairs," Bruce says briskly, then he starts marching toward the exit, hunched shoulders, lost in thought. He looks like a broken man. When Dick and Damian follow him, he doesn't attempt to hold Dick back to have words with him, probably because he doesn't want to give Dick another chance to snap "Don't," at him like the first couple times he'd tried that.

 

Alfred's the first in the kitchen, and he whips up a huge pitcher of ice water with lemons in record time. He also puts a tray with comfort cookies next to it, which is adorable, but Damian is the only person who takes one. Dick's stomach is still coiling, and Bruce doesn't look as if he's going to eat, or feel things, in the near future either. His face is sallow, and he looks sicklier and more pallid to Dick than the few times he has actually seen him sick. He looks so much like crap that even Damian has commented on it, wondering out loud if he'd been poisoned. Bruce has told him and Alfred that seeing a doppelganger of himself had been like seeing a ghost, which seems to hold up for now, despite the fact that Bruce has seen multiple ghosts in his time as Batman and he'd never looked like _this_ before. Much like Dick himself, he seems ready to keel over, but he doesn't even sit down in the kitchen. Dick doesn't, either, because if he did, sadness and exhaustion would grab him again. He opts to lean against the counter instead. Bruce looks in his direction and opens his mouth, then thinks better of it, blinks with heavy-lidded eyes, and turns to his son instead.

 

"Damian, I have a very important task for you," he says in that flat voice.

 

"Mm-mmm. Sure." Damian, who loves his name and the phrase 'important task' together even more than he loves his own birthday and cake together, straightens in his chair, still nibbling on his cookie. "What is it, Father?"

 

"You know that the … the computer has a radar function that can determine occultist and supernatural activity." Bruce doesn't say 'Bat-computer', as if he doesn't even want the word in his mouth now.

 

Damian nods. That program really is something; Dick would _never_ understand how Babs put it together, crossing wires and magic with a little supervision from Zatanna – but then, Dick doesn't even really understand how Pong was put together, so.

 

"I have a truncated version of it on my laptop, it should suffice for what we need," Bruce continues, thousand-mile-stare far into the distance, "I want you to run it, and mark all signs of someone trying to create a mystical portal. We … _they_ came that way, and they have to leave that way, too." He pauses. "Oh. If it's on the corner of 72 nd and 5th, feel free to ignore it, that's a … that's an amateur coven trying to summon the god Baal, I already looked into them, that's not important right now."

 

"Understood." Damian grabs another cookie and hops off his chair. Information gathering is not his favorite aspect of the job, as Dick knows, but he seems glad to be a part of what he thinks will be the Robin rescue party. It's not a bad move by Bruce, keeping him occupied with something that's actually important, while at the same time keeping him away from … from the _meat_ of this particular case. "If you give me your password –"

 

"There was a red phone," Bruce suddenly says, with that distant look in his eyes, more to himself than to anyone else. His voice cracks when he recalls something that's obviously about his first meeting with Robin. "It was significant. I'd never seen it before, but I knew it. We both did. It functioned like a key, or a … a totem. _He_ was scared of it –"

 

He trails off when he notices Dick, Damian, and Alfred all staring at him.

 

"Want … want me to look for a red phone?" Damian offers reluctantly, clearly a little stirred by seeing his father out of it like that. "Because I don't think the program can do that …"

 

Bruce finally gives him a look from red-rimmed eyes. "Ah. No. Please just do what I asked you to. Thank you, son. My laptop is in the dining room. Alfred can give you the password."

 

"You give Pennyworth all your passwords? That sounds risky," Damian assesses, scrunching up his nose. "No offense," he says quickly, when he sees the trusted butler stiffening at that.

 

"None taken," Alfred says dangerously. "Though, let it be said that I would never dream of snooping through your Father's files unless there's an emergency. And," he concludes, snatching the cookie out of Damian's hands, " _I_ would never dream of touching his keyboard while I'm eating a cookie. After you, Master Damian."

 

It really is pretty clever, Dick thinks, while Alfred leads a humbled Damian away. Bruce has gotten rid of both in one move, leaving only the two of them. A chilling silence takes hold while Bruce obviously tries to figure out how to get Dick to say a word to him, and Dick thinks about how badly he wants to be someplace else.

 

"Nightwing," he eventually says. It's a neat little trick to address him with his vigilante name, reminding him that this is still casework, and that Dick needs to be a professional, which means he has to talk to Bruce no matter how little he wants to. But he sounds reluctant, cautious, prepared for rejection.

 

"Yeah," Dick replies flatly. He doesn't even want to be in the same room with him, but he wants to solve this mess as badly as anyone. This hot, sticky mess he's found himself in.

 

Bruce's sunken face softens a little, as if even this one-word-response is a relief to him. But then, he tries to put up a neutral front. It's not too convincing. "I know this is difficult –"

 

"Ya think?" Dick interjects, to which Bruce briefly shuts his eyes before he continues.

 

" … I know this is difficult, but I need you to recount to me, in detail, what happened between you and … you and Batman. Everything he said. Everything he did. Don't leave anything out, please. Even the smallest detail could be important."

 

Dick shoots him a sharp look from narrowed eyes. Bruce can't see it, because Dick hasn't removed his mask since he got here, but he probably knows. He always knows these things.

 

 _I wonder,_ he thinks. _Are_ you _going to tell me what happened between you and Robin? Everything you said? Everything you did? And not leave anything out? Will you be open with me, like you ask me to be with you? I highly doubt it._

Something about that line of questioning makes his chest hurt, so he swallows that pill, and finally slumps down on one of the chairs. It's odd to think that, a few hours ago, he'd pondered how Bruce's presence was so comforting to him when he felt tired and beaten. He can't even imagine being anything but uncomfortable around him ever again. But here goes.

 

"Sure," he agrees.

 

Bruce lets out a deep sigh, and his face does a strange thing for a moment, almost as if he's going to weep, but of course he doesn't, Dick can't remember the last time he saw him shed tears; it happened, but it seems like very long ago. He seems to become minimally more comfortable, though, taking a chair and sitting down across from Dick to listen to him. It's such an achingly normal gesture. They'd had so many cozy late-night snacks at this table back when Dick had lived here, returning from patrol together tired, sore, and happy. It had always been so much fun. Of course, now when Dick thinks back on it, all he sees is Bruce going to town on a half-naked sixteen year old version of himself, and it turns into ashes like that damn T-Rex downstairs.

 

He raises his hand without looking at Bruce. "One thing first. I need you to answer me one question."

 

"Of course. Anything," Bruce says, which Dick knows is not true. Even when he's cornered, even when he's desperate to get back into someone's good graces, Bruce never lays all his cards open, he never has, and he never will. He'll give exactly as much of the truth as his self-preservation allows him. But Dick has to ask, anyway.

 

"Why?" He looks down at the finger stripes adorning his gloves, unable to look anywhere else. He hates how tiny and wounded his voice sounds, all of a sudden. "W-why did you do it?"

 

Bruce sounds nervous. No, he sounds _scared_. "Look, they might be getting away as we speak. We should –"

 

"No."

 

Before he knows it, Dick finds himself looking up to glare at him. "No. We'll do this now, Bruce. I'm not some stupid _child_ , you know. I'm not gonna keep important information from you because my _feelings_ are hurt. I'll tell you what happened, whether you answer me now or not. But if you _give a shit_ , if you want me to even _start_ comprehending whatever the hell it was I saw back there, at least _try_ to make me understand. _Why. Why did you do it_."

 

Bruce hacks out a breath, as if he's choking on the question before he can even formulate an answer. The look he gives Dick is almost pleading, but Dick doesn't back down. He waits for his answer, face clenched and hardened. If Bruce has looked broken and old before, he looks oddly _young_ now. Young, because he seems lost and helpless and _frightened_. Dick sees him brace himself, and instinctively realizes that he's not about to lie.

 

"Because he said he wanted me," Bruce says flatly. "And I've waited all my life to hear you say you wanted me."

 

His words are met by stunned, grave silence. Dick stares at him. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, fruitlessly. Somewhere in the background, a grandfather clock is ticking; it's the only sound that can be heard.

 

Now Dick _definitely_ feels tears stinging in his eyes.

 

Why.

 

Why now.

 

He doesn't –

 

He doesn't even know what to _do_ with that now.

 

All he knows is that he's drained, and empty, and sad. The Manor's kitchen is well-heated, but he feels cold. They way they're sitting there, they're both not alone, but there's no comfort between them anyway. Dick faintly thinks that it'd make him feel better if he reached out and touched Bruce's weary, tired face now. But he can't. So he takes a deep breath, and does the only thing he can think to do.

 

"I –"

 

"Dick…" His voice is soft and pleading, in a way he's never heard before.

 

But it's not enough. After all that ugliness tonight, after the deceit (again), the manipulating, the _violating_ , it's _not enough_.

 

"S-so …"

 

He clears his aching throat, looks at his hands again, and lets his cracked voice fill the void between them. "I … I came into my apartment at around four fifteen …"


	9. Chapter 9

"… I can't walk."

 

"Sure you can _walk_. We've walked all the way here. Don't be a brat."

 

"But …"

 

The teen in the dark hoodie and sunglasses clutches the brown package he's holding, and peeks out of the dark alley, at the hobo lurching around right in front of the Gotham Gazette's building. He licks his lips. Doesn't seem too long ago that both his lips and tongue have been on Batman's balls (feels like he can still taste them, despite the popsicle he's received for compensation), but the large man in the trench coat behind him apparently has already moved on from it.

 

"Almost done," he growls, in what resembles an encouraging tone.

 

Dick takes a deep breath and asks the same dangling question he's been asking over and over since they've wrapped up shooting.

 

"What'll become of me once it's done?"

 

He hears a dismissive snort. "You've been singing me that song for an hour. It's getting stale," Batman huffs, in lieu of an actual answer. But then: "… we'll talk later."

 

Dick's heart skips. Batman's been dodging the question from the get go, and he's sorta still doing it, but that's … that's a start. He'll take it. Dick'll take what he can get. He cranes his neck to gaze up at him with a cheeky grin.

 

This seems to fluster the big man. He shifts in his disguise. "You remember what you're supposed to do?"

 

It's Dick's turn to snort. "Walk over to that homeless guy, hand him fifty bucks, tell him to drop this off at the front desk? Think I can handle it. I'm not _dense_."

 

"You're not," Batman agrees to his pleasant surprise. "But you sure like to be asked twice." _Except for in the bedroom._ "Now _move_."

 

Turns out, getting his rocks off makes Batman _a little_ less of a hardass, but not that much. Dick gives up grinning at him, and steps out into the open. He keeps his head down, though he isn't quite sure for whom. The plaza looks freaking deserted, apart from the man in rags shoveling through a trashcan. The early morning hours are traditionally Gotham's deadest hour. The criminal syndicates have already wrapped up their bloody business, and the good citizens aren't up yet. The only people awake are the first responders, the nurses and doctors and cops and firemen, 'cause those poor devils are always up. The Gotham Gazette's front desk is manned, though, and that's the important thing. In a few minutes, the woman hanging over the counter will receive a package that'll wipe that sleepy look off her face.

 

In a few minutes, Dick knows, he'll also have crossed over into irredeemable villainy. He'll kill this world's Batman and Robin (… right, Nightwing), who have done nothing to him, and he's not gonna look back. He figures, after all he's pulled in the past few months, it's not that big of a step.

 

His little walk over seems endless, though. And it's not only 'cause he feels as sore as if he'd been riding a horse for the last hour. (Turns out, _his_ Bruce is way more selfish in bed than the other one was; but he's also even _fierier_ , and Dick has to admit he digs that a little.) It's as if his feet are resisting him. His heart feels heavy. A part of his brain is screaming at him to throw the tape to the ground, then jump up and down on it until it's unusable. Batman would be so pissed, but when is he not. Dick doesn't fear his wrath that much anymore. It's his _indifference_ that terrifies him now. But really, so what if Batman ditches him here; he's ditched him before, and Robin has always found his way back. He'll always find his way back to him.

 

He wants to be strong enough to do that now. He wants to be strong enough to defy his mentor, then turn around and _demand_ he be taken home, anyway. Batman has always respected strength, perhaps he'd respect _him_ , then.

 

He's so caught up in it that he doesn't even notice that the man he's doing all this for, the man who's waiting for him in the dark alleyway, suddenly gets yanked back with a startled grunt and a wire around his neck.

 

" _Gramps_ , huh," the older Batman hisses in his ear as he drags him away.

 

But Dick doesn't see it, he doesn't hear it. He's got his eyes on the man in rags. The hobo interrupts his trash dive with a quizzical hum as the teen approaches. Dick understands why he's alarmed. He sure wouldn't be the first homeless man to get beaten up by a juvenile delinquent in this town. He looks out of it, too, barely able to stay on his plastic-wrapped feet. Dick steps closer, clammy hands clutching the brown package to his chest.

 

"Hey –"

 

Aaand he chokes.

 

He can't do it. It's wrong and he knows it. But he can't bring himself to turn around and face Batman's disappointment, either. He freezes, breaking out into a sweat, until someone else makes his choice for him.

 

When the homeless man moves, it's at a startling pace. Dick sees a flash of silver appear out from under his rags, and his brain kicks into gear a moment too late to tell him –

 

_Run_

 

And then, a strong hand reaches for his wrist, the cuffs snap shut around it, and a familiar voice mutters, "All right, _lad_ , let's have a sit-down."

 

\-----

 

"A word," Bruce says calmly, after slamming Batman into the wall a third time for good measure.

 

He hears something rattle in Batman's throat, and then a fleck of spit flies at his face. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't avoid it, either. He almost wants to thank him. It's deserved. It seems only appropriate that it's coming from himself.

 

It hits his puffy cheek, and he remains stoic while it slowly dribbles down his chin. Batman abandons his fruitless rage to take a good look at his bruised face for the first time. It makes him snicker. "Nightwing got you _good_ ," he assesses, not without satisfaction. But he starts glaring again when it gets no reaction from Bruce.

 

"Coward," he snarls. "Fight me."

 

"No."

 

Bruce looks at his own sneering, arrogant face. Young, proud, somewhat insane, seething with righteous anger. No fear, no shame. He hates him, and he envies him. But that's not important now.

 

"You don't want to fight me," he declares in a tired voice. "You don't think I'm worth it."

 

Batman snorts in agreement. "You look like a dead man," he points out.

 

Bruce doesn't doubt it. He doesn't feel as if he wants to live. He doesn't want to _die_ either, he never does (too much unfinished business still), but he's not sure _how_ to live, now. He's lost himself, he's lost whatever love Dick might have left for him. He's wearing the cowl, but he's disgusted with himself for doing it. He can't imagine getting up tomorrow, he can't imagine looking at his face in a mirror without wanting to break both. He so badly wants to lie down and play dead. The only thing he wants more than that is to end this, without bloodshed, and without more suffering. He owes it to Dick. He owes it to Robin. And that's why his hand stays locked around Batman's throat like a vice.

 

Batman had been right. He'd started it, he has to end it. After that, he can still fall down that steep, ragged dark hole that's opened up inside him.

 

" _How_ ," Batman growls at him, his curiosity overriding his desire to treat him like trash for a second, which makes sense. In his place, Bruce would want to know too.

 

He'd known that putting Damian on portal watch would have never been enough to truly stop them; it had been a diversion more than anything else, a sad attempt at saving face in front of his son. After his talk with Dick (the results of which he's trying to bury deep in the back of his mind for now, lest he'd start clawing the skin off his face), he'd been prepared to scour the entire city for them. But then, Batman had unexpectedly come to his aid.

 

"You went on a burglary rampage through some old Wayne Tech facilities," he reminds him, "Stealing some _very specific things_. And once I saw –" He hesitates, shudders, presses on. "I knew what you'd do."

 

Of course he did. They're not identical, obviously, but they share the same, catastrophic brain chemistry. How could he _not_ know. "And I knew you wouldn't _mail_ it."

 

Batman flashes him a cold, unimpressed smile, but it's masking something else, something buried deep, and shameful. "I only finished what you started."

 

Bruce resists the urge to slam him into the wall again. "I'd let you ruin me. But I won't let you ruin _him_."

 

"How _nurturing_." Batman tilts his head as well as he can with his throat in a deadlock. "It's not gonna make him crawl back to you," he says, soberly and without cruelty. "Not that one. Tell me you're not that pathetic."

 

Bruce doesn't even try to mask the pain pouring across his face. It's fine, he might as well see it. It's not as if he has any dignity left that's worth defending. He nearly says _I know_ , but it's not as if either of them needs it.

 

Batman's red-rimmed eyes narrow. "What'd you do with the boy?" He now asks, attempting to crane his neck in the direction Robin has disappeared into. The note of real, possessive concern in his voice makes Bruce cringe with familiarity. "Where is he?"

 

"He's safe. I wouldn't harm him. But the tape is mine. And you'd have to cripple or kill me to get it back."

 

Batman's hands curl into fists in their heavy gauntlets. "Why does _everyone_ here insist I won't _kill_? You are _one_ man. You're _old_. I can take you."

 

"You'd have to try both of us, though. How 'bout that?"

 

Hearing his chipper, mellow voice from above sends a shock through Bruce's system. They both react to it, looking up at Nightwing peering down at them from the fire escape, wiggling his finger at Batman.

 

"I kicked your butt once," he says, "Don't make me do it again."

 

He's wearing that daredevil grin, but Bruce can tell that he's acting. Beneath it, he looks pale and miserable, and it makes his heart clench with guilt.

 

"Nightwing." It's hard to speak to him, but he's not ready to give up on it yet. "You should rest."

 

"You think I'd miss this?" Nightwing quips, but there's no warmth, no affection to it. It's not lost on Bruce, and not on Batman.

 

"Look at you," he barks up at him. "You're even worse off than the old perv who made you. A girl scout could take you."

 

"You know? You're right." Dick shoots him a sardonic smile. "I lost _a lot_ of blood thanks to you. Actually, if you tipped me right now, I'd fall over. But I came anyway, to offer my moral support," he says, not once looking at Bruce. He points at the alley's entrance. "To _him_."

 

Batman's gaze follows his pointing finger, and then Bruce feels his body slump under his hands. His expression goes from sneering to startled little boy, and Bruce knows that, for once, he's made the right call.

 

"You _didn't_ –" Batman croaks, and it sounds as petulant as it does defeated.

 

In the alleyway stands Alfred Pennyworth, with a handcuffed, pouting Robin flung over his shoulder and a stern look on his face. He's still in his homeless man's costume, which somehow doesn't make him seem less dignified in the slightest.

 

"I'm sorry, boss," Robin squawks. "He – he got the drop on me …"

 

"Whatever," Batman mumbles, mortified. He's barely able to look at the butler, who must be a perfect doppelganger of the man who'd raised him.

 

Bruce almost cracks a weak smile. The inspiration for this had come from Dick, like it had so many times over the years. Bruce came up with it after Dick mentioned in his grudging report that the only kind word Batman had spared had been for Alfred. Which wasn't much, on its face, but combined with what Bruce knows about himself, what he had gleaned from Robin's behavior …

 

Alfred Pennyworth is the one person that all four of them love, care for, and respect. He's the constant. He's the secret weapon.

 

But in order to get him to do this, of course Bruce had had to do something first. He'd had to disappoint the man whose respect, next to Dick's, had meant the most to him.

 

It seems as if his face is still ringing from the massive punch Alfred had delivered to him when he'd told him the truth about himself and Robin. (He hadn't slapped him; he'd outright _punched_ him.) It corresponds with the swelling of his busted lip and cheek from where Dick has hit him earlier. It hurts, but nowhere near enough.

 

"Alfred." Bruce lowers his gaze, mirroring his other self. It's almost as difficult to look at his oldest friend as it is to look at Dick. "Excellent work, as usual."

 

The butler doesn’t answer him. "Master Dick," he says to the young man dangling from the fire escape. "I told you to stay in bed. You're in no condition to be scaling walls!"

 

"Apologies, Alfred." Dick sounds genuinely guilty. He slides down the stairs, hitting the ground a little more heavily than usual. "But I had to at least check on mini-me." He limps over and ruffles Robin's hair. The gesture isn't unfriendly, though harsh enough to make the boy wince. "Even if he's a brat."

 

"You're … not mad?" Robin squeaks, twisting his neck to look up at his counterpart. It'd be easy for him to wrestle out of the butler's grip, but he doesn't, which is another point for Bruce's theory.

 

"Eh," Dick says noncommittally, still with that biting smile on his face.

 

"Enough." Alfred uses one hand to balance Robin on his shoulder, and puts the other on his hip. "This has gone on long enough. We will resolve this once and for all, and we will do it in a _civil_ manner, in a _civilized_ environment. If I'm not mistaken, we have a safe house right around the corner. We'll resume this conversation there."

 

Dick gestures at Robin. "Want me to take him?" He offers.

 

"I appreciate it, Master Dick," Alfred says, shifting the boy on his shoulder with a soft groan, "But please, not in your current state."

 

"I could –" Batman grumbles.

 

"Or me, if you –" Bruce starts.

 

Dick gives both a consternated look while Alfred pierces them with stern, hard eyes. " _Not_ you two," he snaps, extending a warning finger.

 

"Hey, I can walk," Robin protests weakly. "Let me down? I'm not gonna run, I swear."

 

Alfred seems skeptical for a moment, but ultimately relieved. "Very well, young Sir. I'll take you at your word."

 

He puts him down with a small huff, and Robin doesn't run. "Thank you, Mr Pennyworth," he says meekly, dusting himself off.

 

"The package is secured," Alfred informs Bruce, without seeming like he actually wants to talk to him, patting the bag he wears around his shoulder. "Now gentlemen, if you _please_."

 

He turns, and they all fall in line behind him, of course they do. Robin is in handcuffs, and Batman is flanked by Bruce and Dick, but Bruce isn't fooling himself; they could probably take all three of them in combat, if it came to it, and there's no telling who'd be left standing at the end. But the point is that they aren't going to try, not now, not after Alfred has gotten involved. Bruce knows Batman well enough to be sure. He might get into fights with him, might yell at him, and this version is probably even young and crude enough to shove him or even grab him by his impeccable collar. But even he wouldn't dream of harming him. And they both know it.

 

"Tattling to Alfred," Batman growls next to him, "What a _bitch_ move."

 

"Worked well enough, didn't it," Bruce mutters back between clenched teeth, but his attention is on Dick, who quietly keeps in step with them, but seems less than thrilled to be in their presence.

 

"Stop it, Master Bruce," Alfred says, without turning around. "I'm _not_ above putting you across my knees if you try my patience."

 

"Which one," they both ask in unison, before exchanging a nasty look.

 

Alfred makes a merciless noise in his throat. " _Both_."

 

And Dick doesn't even laugh at it.


	10. Chapter 10

Eventually, it's 8 in the morning, and up in one of Bruce Wayne's many anonymous penthouse apartments, things have reached a stalemate.

 

A storm is raging outside, but the luxurious suite with the thick, sound-proofed walls is perfectly quiet. A foul odor hangs in the air from the fragrance that Alfred has put on to get into character. It seems oddly fitting; there's something rotten going on here, after all.

 

Bruce and Dick are sharing a couch, but they couldn't be sitting further apart on it. Dick is slumping in the cushions, and it pains Bruce to see how exhausted he looks. Sometimes, it seems as if he's about to doze off, but then he snaps out of it again, obviously too tense and uncomfortable to actually pass out. After a while, Bruce stops sneaking solemn looks in his direction. His former protégé and once-upon-a-time best friend seems determined to ignore him, and Bruce doesn't blame him.

 

Batman is sulking in the armchair across from them. Whenever he's not glaring at Bruce with hate-filled, bloodshot eyes, he's slyly examining the room. Bruce knows that every household implement, every piece of furniture is a potential weapon to him, but he leaves him to it, anyway. He doesn't blame _him_ , either. He's free to dream about putting his older counterpart's head through the flat screen TV, as long as he doesn't make an actual move. And he won't. Alfred still has the tape, and he's already re-iterated that Batman would have to pry it out of his cold dead hands if he wanted it.

 

Alfred has retreated to the next room. He's excused himself to have a private talk with Robin. Or rather, he'd announced that this talk would happen, and that Dick and the Batmen should stay here and behave.

 

So they wait, and every minute feels like an hour.

 

Bruce thinks that he's never experienced Dick being this quiet. The desire to reach out to him is strong, but every last thread of sanity he possesses tells him it's a horrible idea. On the other end of the spectrum, even hearing the way Batman is breathing through his nose makes him want to pummel him

 

_I only finished what you started_

 

but it seems pointless now.

 

"Hey."

 

Bruce unwillingly raises his head. " _What_."

 

"So," Batman gazes back and forth between him and Dick. "Are you two –"

 

"No," they blurt out at the same time, looking in different directions.

 

"I see." Batman smirks with lazy amusement, but his eyes seem pitying when he fixes them on Bruce. "You're a sad man," he concedes.

 

Bruce doesn't even blink. It doesn't seem as if it needs pointing out.

 

Nobody raises their voice again after that. They wait, and Bruce nervously hopes that Robin isn't going to try sleeping with _Alfred_ now. The teen has been in a strange frame of mind from the very start, and Bruce has done nothing but escalate him further –

 

The door opens after what seems like eternity, and the butler and the boy come walking out. It takes Bruce some restraint not to leap to his feet in nervous anticipation at the sight of them. He sees Batman stir in his chair, and knows he's fighting the same impulse. Robin, who's not wearing handcuffs anymore, is gazing stubbornly at his feet. Alfred looks earnest, but at least he doesn't look upset, which is a small comfort.

 

After a short pause, he squeezes Robin's shoulder, and kindly says, "Go on."

 

The boy huffs through his nose, but then he marches over to where his older self is sitting, and awkwardly stands in front of him as if he's about to recite something. Dick looks up at him with deep shadows on his worn, handsome face; it's probably somehow to his benefit that he experiences all this through a thick layer of heavy exhaustion.

 

"I'm sorry for everything," Robin says, and Bruce can tell from the faint blush creeping into his cheeks that he means it, "I wanted to say that the whole time. I feel really bad for the stuff I did. You were really cool to me, and I was …" He trails off, as if he doesn't even want to say out loud what he thinks he is. "And I'm not saying that 'cause Mr Pennyworth said I should, or something," he adds with a petulant shrug, "He just told me I should go ahead and do it, 'cause you're a nice guy and you wouldn't be a jerk about it."

 

"I can confirm that," Alfred says with a faint smile.

 

"Anyway, I think you're great." Robin mumbles, too shy to even look at Dick properly. "And I wish that …" He hangs his head, shuffling his feet. "I wish we coulda been friends."

 

"Kid. I …" The corners of Dick's mouth tremble and turn downward, and for a moment he looks like he did as a little boy on the rare occasions where he'd burst into tears, and it makes Bruce want to fall on a sword. But Dick's eyes stay dry; maybe he doesn't want to cry in front of his teenage self and two Bruce Waynes, or maybe he's too tired for it.

 

He licks is cracked lips. "Thanks," he says hoarsely. "It's okay - well, not really, no, it's _not_ okay, but I just … Robin. _Dick_. Can you promise me something?"

 

"Uh. Sure?"

 

Dick casts a quick, not exactly friendly glance at the two Bruces, then gently tugs on Robin's arm to pull him close, and whispers something in his ear. Bruce resists the pathological urge to lean forward to hear what's being said. Robin listens intently. His features don't give away what he's thinking.

 

At the end, he softly says, "All right." He doesn't smile, but he looks a little more hopeful when he stands up straight again. "So … we cool?"

 

Dick lets out a small sigh. But he looks genuine when he squeezes Robin's hand and says, "Yeah. We're cool."

 

Their handshake lasts for a good while, until Robin lets go, and faces Bruce. Their eyes meet, and Bruce's heart turns sore when he remembers how, for a strange, bizarre, magical moment, they had been lovers.

 

"You don't nee –" he starts desperately, but Robin raises his hand with unexpected confidence.

 

"No. Let me," he insists. And then: "I'm really sorry … that I lied."

 

It's all he says. Bruce stares up at him and sees a quick, mischievous smile ghost across the boy's familiar features, one that's solely meant for him to see, and he instantly understands what it means.

 

_I'm not sorry about what we did._

 

At this moment, it seems like much more than he deserves. Bruce blinks at him and feels a lump in his throat.

 

"I app –" He catches the look in Robin's eyes and needs to clear his throat. "Appreciate it."

 

Robin extends his hand to him, and for a confusing moment, it looks as he's supposed to kiss it, and he's tempted to. But then he collects himself, takes it, and gives it a firm, lasting squeeze. He feels Robin's fingers squeeze him back, and then the moment is interrupted when he hears Batman make a noise that sounds like he's throwing up in his mouth.

 

It causes Alfred to turn to him. "Right," he says sternly, " _You_."

 

Batman delivers him a steely glare, but it's obvious how it wounds him that Alfred, any Alfred, would turn on him. "Sure. I'm the villain. After all he's pulled, _I'm_ the asshole."

 

"Not quite, no." Alfred shows no sign of wariness as he walks over to him, arms crossed. "At least you're not the only one. After learning about the situation – and, I must add, learning _much_ more than I _ever_ wanted to know –"

 

Batman briefly examines his boots. Bruce shields his eyes with his hand.

 

Alfred shoots glares at both of them. "I came to the conclusion that _neither_ of you should be trusted with this boy."

 

He pauses to let the words sink in. Dick has risen from his tired slump to look at him curiously. Robin is staring down at his boots, but Bruce can see the faint, gleeful smile on his face. Batman silently glowers at him, then at Alfred, waiting. Bruce, who is the only one who knew it was coming, gives Alfred a firm nod, which the butler ignores.

 

When nobody really speaks up to vehemently disagree, Alfred continues. "Anyway, Bruce has asked me to make the boy an offer, and it seemed reasonably enough to me that I did."

 

"Did he propose," Batman grumbles. Bruce bites the inside of his mouth and silently counts to ten.

 

Alfred's lips grow thin. "We're offering him to remain in our world to resume his education, and even his crime-fighting activities, with the financial support he has grown accustomed to," he says. "However, he would _not_ be living at Wayne Manor, and Master Bruce has _assured_ me that he will not be in contact with him. I happen to have a good friend back home who is headmaster of a prestigious boarding school who I'm sure would be glad to take him, and I am certain that Knight and Squire wouldn't mind looking out for our young friend here. Or -"

 

The butler sighs. "If he doesn't wish to part with Gotham – why, I couldn't even begin to fathom – we're sure Dr Leslie Tompkins would be able to find a good place for him. And there's a certain, ambitious vigilante who we know would love to have a partner. He's been scouting for one for _years_ , yet has never been able to make it stick, somehow. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to take on a talented youth who has experience as a Boy Wonder. And I have a feeling they'd get along splendidly. His name is Red Hood."

 

Batman looks completely lost.

 

"Jason Todd," Robin says excitedly, bouncing on his heels. "The second Robin."

 

It's silent until Dick makes, "…huh."

 

Bruce observes him. The idea seems to have stirred him out of his apathy for a moment. He looks intrigued. "That's … kinda brilliant, actually," he admits. "Jason _has_ been desperate for a partner. And uh, not to pat myself on the back, but he'd probably go _nuts_ if you told him he'd get his own Dick Grayson to work with." He turns to Robin. "And, you know, after seeing you in action … you two could actually be a good match."

 

"Is he good to work with?" Robin asks, with a meaningful sideways glance at Batman that the older man scowls at.

 

It's obvious Dick isn't sure how to answer that. "He … uh, can be," he eventually settles on.

 

Bruce has given this a lot of thought. Jason could be a troublesome foe, but he could also be a loyal ally if he got the chance. And ... with the experiences he's had, he's extremely unlikely to try sleeping with a teenage boy. Dick doesn't say it out loud, but Bruce knows both he and Alfred are thinking it, and they'd be right. Actually, Jason is more likely to come after his former mentor guns blazing if he learned what had happened, and he would have good reason to. He surely wouldn't be the worst company for Robin; besides, he couldn't _possibly_ be worsethan either of the Bruce Waynes in this room.

 

"It's entirely your choice," he says to Robin, once the boy sets his curious eyes on him. His voice is flat and exhausted, but he can't keep the softness from creeping in. "I won't interfere. But I want to take care –"

 

"All right, I've had it!" A dark voice cuts him off.

 

Batman has emerged from his chair. Even in his current de-fanged state, he cuts an imposing figure as he strides across the room to tower over the butler and, by extension, Bruce.

 

"Who do you two think you fucking are?" He bares his white, sharp teeth. "It's not for _you_ to decide!"

 

Bruce gets to his feet in case he has to interfere. Even Dick straightens, though he looks like he wouldn't even be able to stand up.

 

Robin follows the scene with wide, interested eyes.

 

Alfred seems completely unfazed by the large man looming over him. "You're correct, Sir. We are not the ones to decide." He gestures at Batman's former teenage partner. His voice is cutting. " _He_ is. It's about time the lad gets to make a choice for himself. Wouldn't you agree?"

 

The Bat and the butler stare each other down, until Alfred lets out an exasperated sigh.

 

"Preserve your energy, Sir," he says curtly, before he retreats. He gives Robin a sad, gentle nod. "Tell him."

 

All attentions turn to Robin, and Bruce realizes that the teen has been grinning through the entire exchange. Now he walks over and puts himself between Batman and Alfred, looking up at his former partner. Bruce watches them. They look unsavory, Batman in a sloppy trench coat, Robin in a worn-out hoodie, and yet somehow, as they exchange a look, something about them _fits._   

 

"I told him thanks, but no," Robin explains with another shrug. "I told him I wanna be with you." He turns around when he feels Bruce's eyes on him. There's a hint of regret on his sharp, pretty face, but there's even more resolve. Bruce sees that fever simmering in his eyes, that beautiful madness, and knows he'll never forget it. "It's where I'm meant to be."

 

Bruce swallows, then nods at his decision.

 

Batman's massive body is stirring. Bruce watches his face closely, and it almost seems as if an emotion is about to take place on it, but then it doesn't. Instead, the vigilante blusters, and pokes his finger at his former partner, who's grinning up at him again.

 

"Okay, let me get one thing straight, you're not _with_ me," he barks. "I may _take_ you with me, if I'm generous, though hell knows you don't deserve i – "

 

" _SHUT UP._ "

 

Everyone's heads turn in Dick's direction, startled by the unexpected harshness in his voice. He hasn't gotten up, but the look he's giving Batman could cut through steel. There's even faint color in his cheeks. He doesn't sound tired anymore, and the words leave him in a staccato, as if he'd been sitting on them for hours, no, for _years_. "Shut up, just shut up, for once, just _shut your mouth_."

 

Bruce internally readies himself to deck Batman if he tries something. Truth be told, he'd like nothing more than to beat himself up for Dick's benefit, even though, judging by Dick's tone, it's unlikely to score him any points now. But as he gazes at his counterpart, he finds him looking more impressed than angry. Eventually, Batman snorts out a laugh.

 

"Know what, Nightwing," he mutters. "Fair enough."

 

Dick growls at him.

 

Batman scoffs, looks at Dick, Bruce, and Alfred in turn, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm so ready to get out of here."

 

Bruce crosses his arms. "Now that we have the tape, and Robin made his choice, you're free to." He turns to the teen again. "Do you think you can perform the ritual from here?"

 

"I can do it anywhere." Robin looks smug. "I once performed in the restroom of a donut shop when he kicked me out and I became homeless."

 

" _Save it,_ " Batman snarls, when three pairs of eyes glare at him. "I _know_."

 

With that, a truce is reached, all necessary words have been spoken, and they decide to leave the pair to it. Bruce is surprised when Batman comes over to him as Dick and Robin exchange farewells.

 

"I give you this. Your city looks clean. As good as I've ever seen it." He gives his older self a morose look. "Maybe you _don't_ suck."

 

Bruce isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Neither seems a good option. "Thanks for noticing," he deadpans, because he _does_ take pride in his work, even though he doesn't feel a shred of it now.

 

"I like the Batmobile," Young Batman confesses grumpily. He sounds impressed, and beefed about it. "It's pretty sweet."

 

"You totaled it."

 

The hardness on Batman's face dissipates for a moment. "I regret that," he says, and his wistful tone makes it clear that his regret is with the car, not with Bruce.

 

Bruce's face is twitching. "I know you do." He also knows that Batman will immediately build one for himself once he gets home. Which is fine; he would have come up with the design on his own one day, anyway.

 

Bruce casts a look at Dick and Robin by the couch, then treats his other self to his best threatening stare. "If you ever hurt him, I know where you live."

 

"Same." Batman holds Bruce's stare until Robin returns to his side. "What's that," he asks him.

 

"Oh, this?" Robin twirls the escrima stick in his hand, then nods at Dick. "He gave it to me. As a souvenir. A reminder that I can do whatever I want with my life. And," he smirks. "He says to zap you with it if you're mean to me."

 

Batman looks as if he has a biting retort to that, but then he catches another death glare from Nightwing, and decides to bite his tongue. He turns to Alfred, instead. "Really sorry about the mess in the Batcave, Alfred. You know it wasn't personal." He looks genuinely guilty. Even Robin stops playing with his stick for a moment to bite his lip. "Yeah, sorry Mr Pennyworth," he pipes.

 

"Not to worry," the butler shoots Bruce a frosty look. "I'll have _plenty_ of assistance cleaning it all up."

 

They get ready to finally part, but as soon as Dick gets up from the couch, he goes as white as a sheet, and starts shaking on his legs. The sight shocks Bruce back to reality. They've invested so much time debating Robin's fate, when Dick should've been on a stretcher _yesterday_. He rushes over to aid him, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees the wary look on Dick's pale face and realizes with a pang of immeasurable sadness that he'd rather stagger on by himself than take his hand.

 

"Right here, Master Dick." Alfred swoops in instead, wrapping Dick's arm around his neck and helping him up. "Hold on to me. There."

 

Bruce lets Dick limp out with Alfred's help, then leaves the suite behind them. He sees Robin sheepishly wave at them before the door falls shut.

 

They take a long, silent walk down the endless hallway, looking very much defeated, a wounded soldier, a disappointed guardian, and a fallen hero who doesn't dare to speak a word to either. When they finally reach the elevators, Bruce more feels than hears the faint ringing of an old phone from the other end of the hall.


	11. Chapter 11

The storm seems to have receded, but the streets still seem conveniently deserted once they reach the back exit. Alfred leaves to bring the car around, which briefly leaves Dick stranded with Bruce.

The young man refuses to even look at his old mentor, stubbornly clinging to the door's handle, so he won't have to touch him. Bruce feels his throat closing up at the sight. He wants nothing more than for him to accept his hand. He wants to carry him in his arms, like he used to whenever he got hurt on patrol, he wants to put him to bed, and … nothing and, really, he wants to put him to bed and tuck him in and watch over him to make sure he'll be all right. But Bruce is a helpless idiot, as always in these moments. Seeing Dick hurt has always shaken him to his core; being the cause of his hurt is something he doesn't know how to deal with, never has.

"Dick," he finally chokes out. "I –"

"You know," Dick interrupts, his voice flat as he stares straight ahead at the brick wall across from them. "I swore to myself I wasn't gonna say it. Or think it. 'cause it's childish, and it makes me feel stupid. But," he smiles mirthlessly. "I couldn't help but notice. There were two of me, and there were two of you. And you _both_ went crazy for _him_."

Bruce had thought he couldn't feel more devastated. He was wrong. "No," he whispers. "No. No, don't think -"

"Don't tell me what to think. And don't insult me by denying it." Dick talks right over him again, unimpressed by the growing anxiety in his voice. "I'm not _jealous_. It's _creepy._ But I get it. He's like a time capsule to you. A freeze frame. Back from the time when I did whatever you wanted me to. The minute I stopped doing that was the minute you stopped –"

"Dick, don't –"

Dick presses his bloodless lips together. "- stopped loving me. I used to wonder what I did wrong, what drove you away from me, but it's simple, really. You loved the boy, you don't care for the man, you couldn't have made it clearer."

"I _never_ stopped loving you!"

It's startling how easy it is to say now that he's in a panic, now that it all comes crashing down. He takes a step toward him. "I'm proud of everything you've become. I look to you every day, and it makes me happy, and it makes me proud. Dick, please. _Please_." The words come pouring out of him, and it seems crazy he hasn't said all of this earlier, much earlier. But hope fades when Dick looks at him as if he's never going to believe him again. It's too late. Bruce extends an arm for a touch that never happens. "You're … you're the only thing I ever – "

"Yeah?" Dick doesn't let him finish, doesn't let him come closer. At this moment, Alfred returns, and he pushes away from the door to drag himself over to the car. "Coulda fooled me."

\----

One screwy, mind-bending ritual later, and he's home again, home being the Batmobile. He's grinning as his gloved hands stroke the wheel, and it makes his scorched face hurt like hell, but he doesn't even care. _Ah_. She's not the beauty that the other one was, but she's a beast, she's _his_ beast, hot and loud and smelling of gasoline, and he puts her through the paces as he speeds down the highway toward the Batcave's entrance, while the sky slowly turns blue. He fucking loves it.

The nymph is next to him in the passenger's seat, eyelids on half-mast. Bruce leaves him alone. He usually doesn't tolerate dozing in the Batmobile, but it's not as if the little punk is still on duty anyway, and he really looks like he needs some rest. Hell knows that old bastard didn't let him have any.

Bruce watches him blink at the road, caught somewhere between awake and asleep. "Take a nap," he growls, first thing he's said in a while.

"Nah," says the boy.

Now that he's back in his uniform (why he'd let him put that on again, Bruce isn't exactly clear on), the bruises on his skinny legs are very visible. Imprints of Bruce's large paws on his tender skin. _His_ imprints, not the other one's.

"You all right," he gets it in his head to inquire, eyes fixed on the road.

"Mmm," Dick stirs, wincing as he shifts around in his seat. "Better. It hurt in the beginning," he informs him, as if he hadn't helpfully pointed that out a couple times already. But when Bruce casts a fleeting glance at him, he sees a lazy smile spread across his face. "But it also felt hella good."

Bruce grunts. "I know. You've said. Multiple times." _Squealed_ it, more like, but same difference.

… it's not as if he hadn't liked hearing it

Dick chuckles, reaches over to pat his big thigh. Bruce clenches his jaw, then lets it slide. Ahead of them, the ragged outline of Wayne Manor grows larger.

"You never said …" Dick's head is lulling from side to side. "If I can come back or not."

"Hrm."

True. He hasn't answered. Doesn't mean he hasn't thought a thing or two about it. He stares straight ahead, mulls it over one more time, chooses his words.

"If I cut you loose," he finally says, "Will you go completely insane and do something dumb and dangerous like turning supervillain and returning years later all grown-up and crazy to seek revenge on me?"

Dick turns his head to gaze out the window. When Bruce briefly looks over, he sees his sharp, pale face reflected in the glass, and is reminded of that lost little boy he'd picked up all those years ago, and how impressed he'd been with him. And whatever the kid's become, he's had a hand in it, he's very much his beast, too, there's no two ways around it.

Then Dick starts grinning, all wicked and hard, and Bruce has to admit that he's still impressed with him now, even though he's nuts.

"Probably, yeah," he freely admits.

Bruce tears his gaze away from his pixie face, looks at the road again, and says the final word. "Fine. Then stay."

There's nothing for a while. Then, he hears Robin breathe out what seems like a whole lungful of air. His body settles deeper in his seat, as if it's finally ready to shut down for a while. Bruce feels warmth in his cheeks. "Maybe you'll be more useful this time," he mumbles. "Now that you're a damn _wizard_."

"Occultist," Robin sweetly corrects him. And then his hand comes up to softly rest on his. Bruce lets it last for ten seconds, then pulls away to switch gears.

"Whatever it is you are," he says, making the Batmobile's engine howl for their entertainment, "I like it."


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've arrived! Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and review. This fic is very special to me and I poured a lot of heart into it, and seeing your thoughts and reactions really means a lot. ♥

Nightwing and Batman don't talk for a long time. And word on the street is that Batman's in one of his downward spirals. These two things often correspond.

 

Word is, the Dark Knight is in a reckless, semi-suicidal mood. He's out there fighting, and he's winning, and he's filling Gotham's holding cells, but he doesn't care _how_ many blows he receives, doesn't care _how_ many bullets penetrate his suit, bruising the human body that surely must be under there somewhere. Sometimes, they say, it's like he _wants_ to get hurt, like he gets some sort of sick satisfaction out of getting kicked to shit before he closes the deal. Like he doesn't care at all what happens to him.

 

Those in the know are noticing that Bruce is in one of those phases where he barely sleeps or eats. He withdraws from the social scene completely (feeding the press a story about falling off his jet ski in the Bahamas), and even his intimate friends have a hard time contacting him unless it's mission-related. When they talk to him, he seems mentally sound, but introverted, melancholic, and even curter than usual. He won't talk about what's bothering him. But then, he never does.

 

Alfred Pennyworth has gone on an extended vacation, which is barely ever a good sign.

 

Damian knows that something's up, he's known ever since he had been strictly prohibited from going to that meeting with the other Batman and the other Robin. But neither Bruce nor Dick will talk to him about it. It puzzles and annoys him. He _knew_ he should've followed them that morning. His father doesn't take his mood out on him, he makes an effort to be good to him, but it doesn't help much that he looks as if he wants to walk headfirst into a wall pretty much all the time.

 

The other heroes are aware that Nightwing and Batman are one the outs, and there's the usual gossip, and there's the usual attempts to persuade Dick to go and make nice with the Bat, like he always does. "Whatever it was," say Babs and Tim and other reasonable people, "I'm sure you two can work it out, you always do, you know how he is -"

 

Dick says he wants to talk about something else.

 

He has to move to a new apartment, because his old one has been destroyed. His landlord throws a fit. Bruce sends Dick a very carefully worded letter with a cheque to cover the reparations, as well as a list of luxurious apartments owned by the Wayne family that he could move into at no additional cost. Dick sends it all back to him without comment.

 

He finds a new place. It's much humbler than what the Wayne money would've bought him, but it's all his. Around the same time, he re-connects with an old flame he runs into. They date, and they sleep together for a few beautiful weeks. It doesn't last, when does it ever, but it's nice to feel love again.

 

During the time where they don't talk, Bruce and Dick save each other from grievous harm about a dozen times. Because they'd always do that, no matter how things are between them. One night, Nightwing saves Batman from getting hit by a burning truck that's gone out of control. The big man had simply stood in its way, unmoving, as if contemplating to let it run over him. It disturbs Dick so much he simply creeps away afterward, without a single word being spoken.

 

A few nights later, Nightwing badly miscalculates his leap off a building as a bomb explodes behind him. The detonation propels him much further into the air than he'd anticipated, and he falls, and a chill creeps up his spine as he realizes that it's gonna be one of those really, really bad falls. He'll break his shoulder if he's lucky, shatter both of his legs if he's unlucky –

 

There's a strange, nostalgic wave of calm and comfort washing over him as a dark, winged shadow appears right above him in the fiery sky. A strong arm wraps itself around his middle, carries him through the night air, and gently puts him down on the nearest safe rooftop.

 

After it's done, Batman immediately, wordlessly turns around to leave him alone. Dick notices that he walks with a limp; without Alfred at home, he tends to his wounds himself, which is by all accounts a horrible idea.

 

Dick almost lets him go, once more. But right when the older man climbs the ledge to take off, he decides to say it.

 

"I'm not gonna do it, you know."

 

Batman doesn't reply. He doesn't turn around, either. But Dick knows that he's listening.

 

"I'm not gonna tell you that you're going too far, that you should slow down, that you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, that I worry," he tells him, plugging a piece of melted plastic out of his burnt skin. "I'm not gonna absolve you, this time, I'm not gonna extend my hand to you and tell you to stop punishing yourself and get better. So if that's something you're expecting, you can stop."

 

"I expect nothing." Bruce's voice is cracking. His big shoulders are drooping so pathetically in his suit that it'd look funny, if any of this was funny. He's looming on the roof's ledge as if he wants to throw himself down there without deploying his grapple hook first. Dick turns away from the masochistic display, getting ready to leave too. But not before he finishes telling him the other half of what he'd been meaning to say.

 

"But whenever you decide to be a functional human being again," he says quietly, "I'm there."

 

As he walks away, he hears something behind him, so soft only the wind can hear it.

 

"What?"

 

Behind him, Bruce is still hanging his head. "You're incredible," he repeats, louder this time. He sounds wistful, and it strikes a chord in Dick that hurts.

 

"No. I'm pretty real, actually," he replies, before he grapples himself out of there, "Maybe you'll figure that out one day."

 

A few more weeks pass by, and Dick makes no effort to speak to him again. But word on the street is, Batman seems to be getting his shit together.

 

Alfred Pennyworth returns from his travels to Europe, where he'd stayed to unwind, and toss a certain VHS tape into a volcano. He visits Dick at his new home to stack his fridge with ice cream and soup, and when Dick talks to him, it doesn't seem as if he's planning to quit, or turn his back on his master entirely.

 

Things at Wayne Manor seem to improve, since sometime later, Bruce Wayne's birthday is coming up, and Alfred decides to throw him a party. A small one, at least, for close friends. He maintains that it's important for Master Bruce to come out of his shell and connect with people again. He's neglected those who care for him for far too long.

 

Dick gets an invitation, of course he does. The text on it is formal, since everyone is getting the same one, but it's hand-written by Bruce.

 

He doesn't decide whether or not to attend until the last minute. And then, he does.

 

He even has a present. It's a large, gorgeous framed print of a hand-painted _Gray Ghost_ movie poster from 1940. He'd bought it in an internet auction before he even decided if he'd go. He has a card, too. He puts down _Dear Bruce,_ then can't think of what to write, and leaves it on his desk before he goes to the party.

 

For the first time since Dick attended his birthdays, Bruce actually looks his age. Possibly older. His hair hadn't had that much grey before that portal to another world had opened up all those months ago. He makes an effort to be sociable, Dick can tell. He chats with Gordon, Babs, Clark, and the other guests, he gives out little quips and compliments while he unwraps his gifts. But he looks worn-out and pale, and whenever he smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes grow very deep. And at one point later, when the guests start mingling with each other and the sun starts to set, he steps out onto the terrace to stand there on his own.

 

That's when Dick decides to join him.

 

Bruce says nothing, but Dick hears him sigh deeply, heavily, when he comes to lean on the balustrade next to him. They look out on the estate in silence. The air is warm and filled with fragrances.

 

"Always loved the garden this time of year," Dick eventually says.

 

Bruce merely hums in response, but Dick can sense how thrilled he is to be standing here with him, hearing him say something, _anything_. Dick smiles despite himself; he can't remember the last time Bruce got excited to trade small talk with him.

 

"I'm glad you came." The words come out sounding pressed, as if Bruce has been waiting to say them all evening. "It means a lot. Thank you."

 

To anybody who doesn't know him, he'd look like a serene gentleman enjoying a sunset. To Dick's eyes, it's obvious that he's barely holding it together, especially now that he's in his presence.

 

He hesitates for a moment. Then he tentatively puts a hand on him. "Told you," he says. "I'd be there."

 

He sees Bruce briefly close his eyes at the touch, and then his entire body seems to slowly relax. They look out over the estate together. Despite the setting sun, the view is bright and colorful.

 

"Do you still think about it?" Dick asks him softly. A light shiver comes over him as he addresses it for the first time since it's happened. He still has a deep scar from where Batman has cut him. It's white and faded now, but whenever he looks at it, he feels it stands out among all the other scars he has. "About _them_ , I mean."

 

"Often."

 

"Me too."

 

The admission is easy, and it's oddly relieving. Dick gazes down at his hand still on Bruce's arm. "How d'you think they're doing…?"

 

Bruce ponders it for a moment. Then, a weary smile flits across his face. "If I had to wager a guess … I actually believe they might be fine."

 

Dick breathes out a sigh. "I hope so."

 

"Yes." Bruce sounds melancholic. "I do too."

 

They exchange the shadow of a look. _How are_ we _doing?_

 

There's another moment of silence, until the older man clears his throat. "Tim told me your new apartment is great," he says, sounding hoarse. "River view?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Maybe … maybe I could come by, have a look. I wouldn't keep you long," Bruce nervously glances at Dick's face. "I'd only be five minutes."

 

While Bruce waits for his reply, Dick thinks about how weird it is. How their roles have become reversed. Never in his life would he have expected to one day have Bruce, Batman, meekly asking for five minutes of his time. Now that he thinks about it, Bruce had always been seeking his company, in his own tight-lipped way, but never like this. And only a year or so ago, it would have made Dick's heart stupidly leap out of his chest. But seeing him with Robin, witnessing the extent of his deceptiveness and neediness and obsession, had somehow broken the spell he'd always held over him. For a while, Dick had thought it catastrophic. Irreparable. But now that he sees him, humble, and hurting, and somehow _smaller_ , even if he's as tall as ever – he thinks it might've just made him more human. He's not a god, he's not the all-father, and he's not a giant human-shaped Bat. He's a man, a foolish, lonely man. It's a little sobering, and … freeing, too. He can probably grow accustomed to it.

 

Dick nods. "I'd like that. Next week?" He leans over to whisper at him. "After patrol? Bring Kung Pao Chicken from that place we like."

 

Bruce's solemn face breaks, and Dick sees him smile, really smile, for the first time in months. "Thank you," he says, and it sounds so heartfelt that it makes Dick a little embarrassed. He feels color creep into his cheeks.

 

"You gotta go easy on the _Thank Yous_ , Bruce. If you keep it up, you're gonna get stuck that way," he mumbles, then gives him a mild punch to the arm because he, too, is foolish sometimes.

 

Bruce doesn't laugh. Instead, he turns to him in full, looking awfully serious. "Dick. May – may I –"

 

It happened so rarely over the years that Dick stares at his inquiring, unsure expression and outstretched arms for a moment, wondering what he wants. Then he gets it, and it _does_ make his heart bounce a little. It's another thing he'd never thought he'd see Bruce asking for.

 

He gives him a crooked smile. "Yes."

 

And Bruce pulls him into a hug.

 

For some reason, he thought it'd be a short one. As it turns out, it's not. And he doesn't really mind. Bruce holds on to him as if he thought he'd never see him again (which he, possibly, had been thinking for a while), but there's a delicacy to it, too, as if he's scared he might break him. It grows firmer when Dick returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around the big man in turn. When he does, Bruce's broad shoulders start twitching, and then Dick hears him try, and fail, to hold in a sob.

 

"All right," Dick mumbles, face heating up, clumsily patting his back. Smiling, still. "It's- it's all right –"

 

_I never stopped loving you, either._

 

It takes him a while to notice that the other guests have congregated at the window, staring at the unusual scene unfolding outside. There's Bruce Wayne, in his best tux, hugging his former ward, ex-partner and good friend Dick Grayson as if he'll never let him go, face sunken against his shoulder while his own shoulders are heaving suspiciously. Dick somehow manages to send them an awkward smile from a red, squished face to signal that it's okay, they're having a moment, and it's gonna be fine.

 

Ultimately, they're gonna be fine.

 

Damian, who's scratching a happy Alfred the cat's head, is the first to start grinning. Alfred, the butler, follows. And then, one after the other, all of them do.

 

"We're being watched," Dick whispers to Bruce, because he seems too caught up in him to even notice. He'd never liked these kinds of scenes, after all. He's surprised when Bruce merely holds him closer, sniffling, and replies in a voice that's muffled and thick with tears, "Don't care."

 

"Mm," Dick allows his head to sink against him, too, taking in the odd sensation of Bruce being very strong and very weak at the same time. "Me neither."

 

They stay like that for what seems like a long time. Partly because it feels really, really good, and partly because neither is sure what's going to happen once they let go. The path ahead seems unclear and unknowable. But, Dick figures, they always have been at their best together when there's a mystery to unravel.

 


End file.
